ph: Shameer Khan
Monday, December 7, 2009
Voici le temps des assassins... (1956)
aka
Deadlier Than the Male USA
Der Engel, der ein Teufel war West Germany
Twelve Hours to Live UK
In the heart of Paris a middle-aged restaurateur leads an uneventful life until the arrival the daughter of his ex-wife who has a sinister plan.
Realistic and emotional noir drama with an especially heartless femme fatale.
Deadlier Than the Male USA
Der Engel, der ein Teufel war West Germany
Twelve Hours to Live UK
In the heart of Paris a middle-aged restaurateur leads an uneventful life until the arrival the daughter of his ex-wife who has a sinister plan.
Realistic and emotional noir drama with an especially heartless femme fatale.
The Unsuspected (1947)
The producer of a radio crime series commits the perfect crime, then has to put the case on the air.
Complicated and twisted this is a vicious film noir gem.
Mountains of the Moon (1990)
The story of Captain Richard Francis Burton's and Lt. John Hanning Speke's expedition to find the source of the Nile river in the name of Queen Victoria's British Empire.
A well produced and photographed historic adventure saga which doesn't really spark when it tries to explain the 2 explorers' complicated friendship.
The Auteurs
When the Auteurs released their debut album in 1993, the British press linked them with the massively popular Suede as part of a "glam revival." While the band can blast out guitar-drenched rockers like Suede, the Auteurs come to life when they draw from the quiet side of such distinctively English guitar pop bands like the Kinks, the Smiths, and George Harrison. Luke Haines, the group's guitarist, vocalist, and songwriter, writes highly melodic pop songs that combine the airy melodies of Harrison with the cutting social observations of Davies; they're sharp, intelligent songs, full of humor and gorgeous melancholy, even when they're loud rockers.
The Auteurs - Show Girl
I took a showgirl
for my bride
Thought my life
would be right
Took her bowling
got her high
Got myself a
showgirl bride
Took a job on the side
in a health shop
keeps me well
Got my mantra for life
Got my karma
And a showgirl bride
All my life
All her life
All our life
I married a showgirl
that’s for life
She cant work
in the wintertime
I cant work any time now
Go to libraries
all the while
Looking for a notice
Looking for a name
All my life
All her life
All our life
I married a showgirl
that’s for life
I took a showgirl
For my bride
Sprinkled stardust
on my wife
Took her bowling
got her high
Got myself a
showgirl bride
Don’t you recognise us?
Sunday, December 6, 2009
From my vaults: Diego Alborghetti
ph: Diego Alborghetti
Find more at:
http://www.diegoalborghetti.com/
Saki: The Mouse
The Mouse
THEODORIC VOLER HAD been brought up, from infancy to the confines of middle age, by a fond mother whose chief solicitude had been to keep him screened from what she called the coarser realities of life. When she died she left Theodoric alone in a world that was as real as ever, and a good deal coarser than he considered it had any need to be. To a man of his temperament and upbringing even a simple railway journey was crammed with petty annoyances and minor discords, and as he settled himself down in a second-class compartment one September morning he was conscious of ruffled feelings and general mental discomposure. He had been staying at a country vicarage, the inmates of which had been certainly neither brutal nor bacchanalian, but their supervision of the domestic establishment had been of that lax order which invites disaster. The pony carriage that was to take him to the station had never been properly ordered, and when the moment for his departure drew near, the handyman who should have produced the required article was nowhere to be found. In this emergency Theodoric, to his mute but very intense disgust, found himself obliged to collaborate with the vicar's daughter in the task of harnessing the pony, which necessitated groping about in an ill-lighted outbuilding called a stable, and melling very like one--except in patches where it smelled of mice. Without being actually afraid of mice, Theodoric classed them among the coarser incidents of life, and considered that Providence, with a little exercise of moral courage, might long ago have recognized that they were not indispensable, and have withdrawn them from circulation. As the train glided out of the station Theodoric's nervous imagination accused himself of exhaling a weak odor of stable yard, and possibly of displaying a moldy straw or two on his unusually well-brushed garments. Fortunately the only other occupation of the compartment, a lady of about the same age as himself, seemed inclined for slumber rather than scrutiny; the train was not due to stop till the terminus was reached, in about an hour's time, and the carriage was of the old-fashioned sort that held no communication with a corridor, therefore no further traveling companions were likely to intrude on Theodoric's semiprivacy. And yet the train had scarcely attained its normal speed before he became reluctantly but vividly aware that he was not alone with the slumbering lady; he was not even alone in his own clothes. A warm, creeping movement over his flesh betrayed the unwelcome and highly resented presence, unseen but poignant, of a strayed mouse, that had evidently dashed into its present retreat during the episode of the pony harnessing. Furtive stamps and shakes and wildly directed pinches failed to dislodge the intruder, whose motto, indeed, seemed to be Excelsior; and the lawful occupant of the clothes lay back against the cushions and endeavored rapidly to evolve some means for putting an end to the dual ownership. It was unthinkable that he should continue for the space of a whole hour in the horrible position of a Rowton House for vagrant mice (already his imagination had at least doubled the numbers of the alien invasion). On the other hand, nothing less drastic than partial disrobing would ease him of his tormentor, and to undress in the presence of a lady, even for so laudable a purpose, was an idea that made his ear tips tingle in a blush of abject shame. He had never been able to bring himself even to the mild exposure of openwork socks in the presence of the fair sex. And yet--the lady in this case was to all appearances soundly and securely asleep; the mouse, on the other hand, seemed to be trying to crowd a wanderjahr into a few strenuous minutes. If there is any truth in the theory of transmigration, this particular mouse must certainly have been in a former state a member of the Alpine Club. Sometimes in its eagerness it lost its footing and slipped for half an inch or so; and then, in fright, or more probably temper, it bit. Theodoric was goaded into the most audacious undertaking of his life. Crimsoning to the hue of a beetroot and keeping an agonized watch on his slumbering fellow traveler, he swiftly and noiselessly secured the ends of his railway rug to the racks on either side of the carriage, so that a substantial curtain hung athwart the compartment. In the narrow dressing room that he had thus improvised he proceeded with violent haste to extricate himself partially and the mouse entirely from the surrounding casings of tweed and half-wool. As the unraveled mouse gave a wild leap to the floor, the rug, slipping its fastening at either end, also came down with a heart-curdling flop, and almost simultaneously the awakened sleeper opened her eyes. With a movement almost quicker than the mouse's, Theodoric pounced on the rug and hauled its ample folds chin-high over his dismantled person as he collapsed into the farther corner of the carriage. The blood raced and beat in the veins of his neck and forehead, while he waited dumbly for the communication cord to be pulled. The lady, however, contented herself with a silent stare at her strangely muffled companion. How much had she seen, Theodoric queried to himself; and in any case what on earth must she think of his present posture?
"I think I have caught a chill," he ventured desperately.
"Really, I'm sorry," she replied. "I was just going to ask you if you would open this window."
"I fancy it's malaria," he added, his teeth chattering slightly, as much from fright as from a desire to support his theory.
"I've got some brandy in my holdall, if you'll kindly reach it down for me," said his companion.
"Not for worlds--I mean, I never take anything for it," he assured her earnestly.
"I suppose you caught it in the tropics?"
Theodoric, whose acquaintance with the tropics was limited to an annual present of a chest of tea from an uncle in Ceylon, felt that even the malaria was slipping from him. Would it be possible, he wondered to disclose the real state of affairs to her in small installments?
"Are you afraid of mice?" he ventured, growing, if possible, more scarlet in the face.
"Not unless they came in quantities. Why do you ask?"
"I had one crawling inside my clothes just now," said Theodoric in a voice that hardly seemed his own. "It was a most awkward situation."
"It must have been, if you wear your clothes at all tight," she observed. "But mice have strange ideas of comfort."
"I had to get rid of it while you were asleep," he continued. Then, with a gulp, he added, "It was getting rid of it that brought me to-to this."
"Surely leaving off one small mouse wouldn't bring on a chill," she exclaimed, with a levity that Theodoric accounted abominable.
Evidently she had detected something of his predicament, and was enjoying his confusion. All the blood in his body seemed to have mobilized in one concentrated blush, and an agony of abasement, worse than a myriad mice, crept up and down over his soul. And then, as reflection began to assert itself, sheer terror took the place of humiliation. With every minute that passed the train was rushing nearer to the crowded and bustling terminus, where dozens of prying eyes would be exchanged for the one paralyzing pair that watched him from the farther corner of the carriage. There was one slender, despairing chance, which the next few minutes must decide. His fellow traveler might relapse into a blessed slumber. But as the minutes throbbed by that chance ebbed away. The furtive glance which Theodoric stole at her from time to time disclosed only an unwinking wakefulness.
"I think we must be getting near now," she presently observed.
Theodoric had already noted with growing terror the recurring stacks of small, ugly dwellings that heralded the journey's end. The words acted as a signal. Like a hunted beast breaking cover and dashing madly toward some other haven of momentary safety he threw aside his rug, and struggled frantically into his disheveled garments. He was conscious of dull suburban stations racing past the window, of a choking, hammering sensation in his throat and heart, and of an icy silence in that corner toward which he dared not look. Then as he sank back in his seat, clothed and almost delirious, the train slowed down to a final crawl, and the woman spoke.
"Would you be so kind," she asked, "as to get me a porter to put me into a cab? It's a shame to trouble you when you're feeling unwell, but being blind makes one so helpless at a railway station."
The Hitcher (1986)
A young man who escaped the clutches of a murderous hitch-hiker is subsequently stalked, framed for the hitcher's crimes, and has his life made into hell by the same man he escaped.
Above average road movie thriller with an especially convincing Rutger Hauer as the psychopathic drifter.
Unfortunately, the German censors overdid their job as so often; there is literally hardly any murder to be seen in their version.
Gran Torino (2008)
Disgruntled Korean War vet Walt Kowalski sets out to reform his neighbor, a young Hmong teenager, who tried to steal Kowalski's prized possession: his 1972 Gran Torino.
It's once again the unlikely hero story so often told, but with Clint Eastwood's mature and subtle mastery as director and actor it's a great watch.
Much thought can be added to the controversial topic of a grumpy racist as hero.
Ash
These Northern Irish musicians shared a love for the raw British punk of the Buzzcocks and crafted their musical talents to take the Brit-pop scene by storm at the start of the 90s.
Ash - Angel Interceptor
I stayed in last night
I wasn't feeling alright
I knew it couldn't last
I started thinking of you
And I wished we could be dancing in the dark
(Really slow)
Oh, it's good to know
Tomorrow you are coming home
(I won't be so alone)
I feel heaven in you, don't you know
I feel heaven in you, don't you know I feel heaven in you
Oh, it's true
I can't let go
I miss you, oh you know
Sitting alone
With the TV on
I fell asleep
I was hoping you'd call
And I dreamed we could be dancing in the dark
(Really slow)
Oh, it's good to know,
Tomorrow you are coming home
(I won't be so alone)
I feel heaven in you, don't you know-
I feel heaven in you, don't you know-
I feel heaven in you
Oh it's true, I can't let go
I miss you oh you know
Angel Interceptor- Apollo 21- Uri Gagarin
Flew into the sun
The angels in heaven look down
Where he lay
Oh tomorrow you are coming home...
I feel heaven in you, don't you know-
I feel heaven in you, don't you know-
I feel heaven in you
Oh it's true, I can't let go
I miss you oh you know
Saturday, December 5, 2009
Kurt Vonnegut - Eight Rules for Writing Fiction
Eight rules for writing fiction:
1. Use the time of a total stranger in such a way that he or she will not feel the time was wasted.
2. Give the reader at least one character he or she can root for.
3. Every character should want something, even if it is only a glass of water.
4. Every sentence must do one of two things -- reveal character or advance the action.
5. Start as close to the end as possible.
6. Be a sadist. Now matter how sweet and innocent your leading characters, make awful things happen to them -- in order that the reader may see what they are made of.
7. Write to please just one person. If you open a window and make love to the world, so to speak, your story will get pneumonia.
8. Give your readers as much information as possible as soon as possible. To heck with suspense. Readers should have such complete understanding of what is going on, where and why, that they could finish the story themselves, should cockroaches eat the last few pages.
-- Vonnegut, Kurt Vonnegut, Bagombo Snuff Box: Uncollected Short Fiction (New York: G.P. Putnam's Sons 1999), 9-10.
Friday, December 4, 2009
Art of Noise
Art of Noise (also The Art of Noise) were an avant-garde synthpop group formed in 1983 by producer Trevor Horn, music journalist Paul Morley, and session musicians/studio hands Anne Dudley, J.J. Jeczalik, and Gary Langan. The group's mostly instrumental compositions were novel melodic sound collages based on digital sampler technology, which was new at the time. Inspired by turn-of-the-century revolutions in music, the Art of Noise were initially packaged as a faceless anti- or non-group, blurring the distinction between the art and its creators. The band is noted for innovative use of electronics and computers in pop music and particularly for innovative use of sampling.
The name of the group alludes to the essay The Art of Noises by noted futurist Luigi Russolo. From the earliest releases on ZTT, the band referred to themselves as both Art of Noise and The Art of Noise. Official and unofficial releases and press material use both versions.
Art of Noise - Beat Box
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)
Posts
