Gun-totin', Chronic-smokin' Hearse Initiator (ludickid) wrote,
Gun-totin', Chronic-smokin' Hearse Initiator
ludickid

Popcult roundup

The Prisoner (no, not that one, the 1955 movie with Alec Guiness): Nice filmwork, interesting sets, totally worthless tacked-on romantic subplot, great acting from the two leads despite the fact that it's very theatrical, borderline hammy acting. Probably the least naturalistic dialogue I've ever heard, but still, not bad.

Smokin' Woody's BBQ: it's not the most authentic barbeque in the world, but I still can't get enough of it, particularly when Woody is there. Great coleslaw.

Marc Bell's Worn Tuff Elbow: the dude at the comic shop didn't steer me wrong on this one. Intricate, sometimes hilarious, very surreal stuff, more than fulfilling my request for pseudo-Fort Thunder stuff. Well worth picking up for the deranged art alone.

"I am My Own Wife" at the Goodman Theatre: absolutely amazing performance by Jefferson Mays, who plays all forty characters in the play. Not theatrical at all, oddly enough, given that it was a play and everything.

Gummo: kind of a freakshow. Unsettling, and with a tinge of geekbaiting I wasn't entirely comfortable with, but an extremely beautiful flick just the same. Not really sure how I felt about this.

The Killing of a Chinese Bookie: I saw this with my girlfriend, so it was improved for the company, but I liked it just the same -- great acting, typically deranged but perfectly suitable Cassavetes camerawork (and Christ, did that guy know how to cast -- the mobsters are the grossest-looking gallery of grotesques this side of Arkham Asylum), and a very surprising script that takes you in a completely different direction than you think it's going to. The results are good, but very jarring. Gazzarra is totally compelling in the lead, and the super-idiosyncratic "show" he puts on at his strip club with the aid of the creepy, memorable "Mr. Sophistication" is one of the most unique and disturbing things I've seen in film in a long while. Indie film when that really meant something.

The Residents, God in Three Persons: A terrific album that hardly anyone has ever even heard, and that even fewer have liked. (I used to say that I was the only person on Earth who loved this record, but my roommate seemed to dig it, so she disputes my claim.) A lot of people are put off by the lead Resident's hicky drawl, Laurie Amat's twisted Greek-chorus gimmick, or the typically Residential twisted quasi-electronica, but honestly, this is fantastic stuff if you can get past the initial raised eyebrows: amazing, sinister creeps of synthesizer hooks, some of the Residents' best repurposing of familiar music (in particular, their subversive tweaking of old church hymns and religious music), and the kind of lyrics that can honestly be called great: poetic, profound, disturbing, brilliant, and startlingly frank in a sexual sense without being exploitative. It all adds up to one of the finest concept albums ever made.

Last night's Acquisition spree: illegal; profitable.
Tags: diary, lit, movies, music
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