Rarely are there reviews here, and this is not one.
Being an honorary 'Hollywood guy' my entire life, each 'awards season' I feel much like a black sheep.
Oscar, even an enlarged one with double the movie nominees, Oscar still fails the test of taste.
Abby Cornish and Paul Schneider have received some minor award notice for their acting, and the Academy is throwing them a bone by mentioning the costumes -- convincing ones -- of this film.
Jane Campion, so 'indie' in the world of megadollar film production, is one of those undernoticed directors who actually yield -- let me discharge this word once, and let it echo in our ears -- art.
The richness of this film's sound and images honors the richness of Keats' poetry.
And whereas relationships, nowadays the province of sentimentalized, tooth-bleached status-dating yuppies, or alternatively, infibulated tatterdemalion punks and skanks -- whereas those current relationships seldom register unless stinking of money or rough-and-tumble orgasm, this film honors the mutual attraction of its principals with simple, but deep tenderness. Another word worthy of echo in this context -- love.
The world of all true art is the world of self-conscious imagination. When we live there, in imagination, we find larger space even in the trivial. Greatness seems to fill a small world. Much of the Campion film deals with 'everyday' Hampstead, seen as then a world of bluebells and reeds, of needlework capable of duplicating forms of nature, of amateur neighbor voices charming a room with their chorus, of bedchambers made into 'butterfly farms'.
Of such things, our world, by extension, too. Likely more often than we admit, more than we give serious notice to for more than a flicker -- as though its fleetingness makes it less than real. What's imagined inhabits our world. So that we can inhabit it. Doing that, our lives have meaning.
Norm, who welcomes me daily, waits at his usual table until I get my 'Morning Bun' heated by the Starbucks staff.
In the meantime, re-fixing the plastic lid onto the paper coffee cup so that the cup seam is farthest away from the lid hole (thus preventing slosh, drip, and even spill), I recognize a song coming through speakers hidden away in the ceiling board or where metal baffles meet and join adjacent drywall.
Fresh, hot bag in hand, I pass him on my way to the paper napkins.
He says, smiling and friendly, Norm does, Like that jungle music?
Somewhere in memory, Norm's 'political index' comes to me, fixed as I would place it, somewhere around 1931.
Actually, that's an Englishman, I respond, and with my customary, friendly motions push open the side door into meek drizzle. Have a good one!
Asked if he'd been afraid during his long imprisonment, which had been interspersed with torture and brainwashing [, the Buddhist] monk replied, My greatest fear was to lose my love and compassion toward those who were torturing me.
a) What has been their position on USA health care debate these past months?
b) Are they laying the groundwork for the retirement they plan at the luxury beach condo they're currently scoping out? Right off the private golf course.
c) Is there a concommitant religious anxiety impelling this altruistic act, a 'paying one's way into heaven' -- a clearing of conscience over hardnosed, heartless economic decisions made at the expense of others? 'It's only business'.
d) Do they believe that the risk undertaken by the economic investment of two owners is worth the physical and social sacrifice of 200 workers? (Brown lung, black lung, carcinogen-exposure, carpal tunnel, repetitive stress, PTSS, layoffs, gutted or forsworn benefit packages, personal harassments, 'suggested' asskissing, bad coffee).
The cruelest obstacle to creating one's own ethic is that no principle is incorruptible. Indeed, to cleave to a principle is to corrupt oneself. To shift from one principle to another can, however, be promiscuous. Life is not simple.
A writer leaves you with everything to say. It is in the nature of his medium to start a conversation within you that will not stop until your death, and what he is really after is to be among the last voices you will hear.
-- Clive James. 'Georg Christoph Lichtenberg'. Cultural Amnesia.
A 19 year-old mother of 2 whose own mother is humping the father-to-be of child number three ('in the oven') all of whom exchange accusations against one another and wear their hearts on their sleeve, though he has a sly smile, and after the daughter chokes out tears, she makes for her momma and hurls the word 'bitch' into the face of the woman who once sang songs of joy into her infant-ears, as the audience howls with mock shock and hard laughter.
More-or-less 6.69 Billion global humans (and counting copulating).