💊 ONCE UPON A TIME IN HÄLSINGLAND
Forming entire cogent thoughts ain’t always possible with a rampaging, completely mobile ten month old around.
So welcome to this unruly grab bag of whatever it is I’ve been listening to, reading, playing and watching delivered unto you via the wonder of embedded tweet threads.
While I’m still going to be posting lucid – allegedly – longer form pieces here and on the Patreon as time allows, I thought I’d go all former Fairfax journo and do a weekly-ish collection of what’s blowing my pop cultural skirts up here, in this format.
Which basically means unpacking some tweets into slightly more thoughtful form where possible, but not going the full word count on the subject.
I saw two flicks with pretty gnarly depictions of traumatic head injury in the last seven days.
The first was Midsommar, which is pretty much a documentary about Sweden.
I encourage all dipshit American college students not to watch it and instead to immediately sign up for a trip to the land of the midnight sun as soon as Hani or or Pellé or Filip the wacky Scandy exchange student suggests it.
The second – and eminently more whiffy – head trauma came via Quentin Tarantino’s ninth flick, Once Upon A Time In Hollywood. It’s big F filmmaking that leans into every Tarantino Trope™ to excess, and once more rolls out the director’s aggravating “cathartic reimagining of history” kink.
For sure, it’s an amiable, watchable mosey through QT’s cinephilic origin story, and I could watch leathery Brad Pitt doing leathery Brad Pitt things pretty much all day.
Regardless, every flick post Jackie Brown has been an exercise in “spot the influence”, and it’s more and more evident that the director’s filmography is charging headfirst into a wall marked PROBLEMATIC.
And no matter how wizened Leonardo DiCaprio gets, he’ll always look like a giant baby in a leather jacket.
Where the fuck are his shoulders?
My thoughts on Preacher (the telly show) are ever unwinding.
It occasionally strikes me that I’m no longer the target demo for this very loose adap of Ennis and Dillon’s very naughty boy shenanigans. What worked for me at nineteen – OTT gun massacres, scatological comeuppances, nob gags and buckets of ante re-upping gore – certainly feel tedious and played out twenty odd years later. Transgressive it ain’t – it’s pretty much life as we know it here in 2019.
Wrap all of the above around a cast of utterly unlikable rotters and I’m still somehow intrigued as to where this truncated take on the source is going to end, beguiled by its occasionally stunning cinematography and sort of bewildered by how bad the scripts are.
And fuck, who really gives a shit about Old Boy aping long take fight scenes these days?
King Gizzard’s ‘Infest The Rats’ Nest’?
That is all.