Gothic canals, f bombs and child murder. It’s not so much In Bruges is milk that’s coddled and gone lumpy from neglect as I’m no longer in my twenties. Should do well for all you Boondock Saints but my fellow depressive neurotics should steer clear. Belgium looks nice though.
This one was recommended to me by attractive marrieds. They’d come to see me drink menstrual blood and shake my butt under a big tent during an evening of orgiastic Klezmer and glitter and then they wrote to me via Facebook and suggested this Irish comedy about a quirky family and a teenage pregnancy. I fear I’m obfuscating the connection in an ill-conceived effort to be a wise-guy. The connection is love.
Philosophers, poets, and laborers. In hotel rooms, bars, and bookstores. The highway winks away over the horizon. We have time enough to choose our words precisely, to etch and carve the minutes into these salty bed sheets. There are such things as love & lust & God & consequence. The pistol has one loaded chamber and Chekhov demands it must be fired.
It’s refreshing to see trans folk and Armenian cab drivers represented in the movies. A picture, more a window than a card trick; I feel these sun beat streets. This corner of Wilshire and La Brea. Miss Sin-Dee speed walks in heels past spent liquor bottles and dog turds. Miss Alexandra blows Razmik in a car wash. The frothing suds are a stand-in for spittle & semen. It’s a Christmas movie.
Your favorite 90’s weirdos in power suits and knitwear. They shuffle through Manhattan high-rises. They lounge in Blockbuster videos. They’re trying to appropriate iambic pentameter for a burgeoning internet. They’re pained and earnest and boring. The texture is glass and steel. The plot is The Lion King. Also Hamlet.
Jasper At The Movies 