A Closer Look at Movies We Thought We Loved (and Others We Still Love To Hate . . .
All our lives most of us growing up have been sadly bamboozled and mis-educated by mass media, purposefully distracted and dumbed-down by pop culture. We were virtually babysat by master hypnotist, Mr. TV (along with our parents via the fear-mongering six 'o' clock news.) Ignorance is bliss. Well, as grandma used to say, Time to grow up for real, chillins. No, actually Gram never did say that. That was just a bad dream or false memory. Another childish myth uncovered. Meanwhile, when we start to connect the dots and finally see the big picture, everything starts to make some kind of depressing sense and it becomes painfully obvious that all famous people are truly connected. And not just connected, but literally related by ancient, elite, filthy-rich bloodlines. Here's an interesting link.
It's the big club that now-dead comedian George Carlin cynically described, "And you ain't in it! . . ." **For more on this, I encourage all to investigate the profound genealogical research and intense debunking of famous events and celebrities by Miles Mathis. In contrast, the following is a lazy, half-assed summary for those who don't like to research or read too deeply, mainly to help appease my own plandemic boredom, full disclosure.
^^So, hunker up and strap it down. It's going to be a bumpy ride, sports and movie fans.
Apocalypse Now
An ironically glamorous (anti-war?) odyssey subtly not condemning war, violence or evil. Another intriguing ensemble cast (Brando, Duvall, Sheen, a baby-faced Laurence Fishburne, a cameo role as a spook Colonel for Harrison Ford, pre-mega star) is featured here. The only one missing is Robert DeNiro, who most likely Duvall just edged out by a knife blade for the juicy part of gung ho Kildare, Kilgore, whoever. Maybe RD was busy with "The Godfather II" or "Taxi Driver" or "Raging Bull."
First and foremost, we have the sullen, deeply troubled Sheen (maverick spook/someday Patsy, Willard) given a spooky masochistic "Heart of Darkness" secret mission "for his sins." Robert Duvall as colorfully fearless cowboy Lt Col K ordering his chosen boys to surf in the midst of a raging mop-up of a so-called battle, most notably when unexpectedly graced with the presence of superstar California surfer Lance. Frederick Forrest is the fairly likable and egregiously high-strung Chef, the endearingly neurotic head case from New Orleans. A washed-up, overweight Brando just going through the motions as the quietly heralded AWOL anti-hero, Kurtz. A manic Dennis Hopper and his half dozen cameras as an obvious photojournalist/Intel agent, both inside and outside the film. An eerie score along with Wagner's "Ride of the Valkyries" and Jim Morrison and the Doors' MK-Ultra music provide some essential auditory emotional manipulation.
All in all, I have to admit I still can't help but like this movie. Obviously, I am beyond redemption. There are some undeniably gripping and highly memorable scenes. Charlie don't surf! It was an effing tiger, man! Baby Laurence river grooving to the Stones' "Satisfaction." Sadly, I grew up watching the lame, edited-for-TV version with endless commercial interruptions on the Late Late Late Show and when I got around to seeing a watchable cut I was indubitably intrigued.
The seemingly endless Redux version has some fascinating and seriously strange stuff. A truly bizarre and gratuitous (not to mention highly unlikely) scenario where the ragtag riverboat crew fortuitously encounters the stranded Playboy bunnies they had previously collectively lusted after at the near-disastrous USO show. Presumably included for the obligatory nudity it so oddly presented. I sensed some subtle, Intel/government-sanctioned sex trafficking mind control reveal happening here. (MK-Ultra again.) Then there's the inexplicable mission respite after poor Chief is fatally speared by some disgruntled natives, whereupon the traumatized crew (likewise recovering from the untimely demise of young Clean/Laurence) is entertained by the downtrodden former elite French colonists bemoaning their proud, ancient plight. This odd scene is beyond mind-numbing and barely audible unless you crank up the volume to the max. Finally, a moody, grubby, impatient Willard (Sheen) is literally taken in by a dreamy, philosophical French femme fatale in another gratuitous scene i didn't totally hate nonetheless.
Still, the end doesn't make any sense. It's terribly disappointing. Why did insane, war-weary Kurtz allow himself to be assassinated so easily by Willard, whom he had so easily captured and caged to begin with? The loopy old rogue warrior didn't even put up a fight. Totally anti-climactic. Talk about lazy writing. So, where does exhausted, burnt-out spook Willard go from here? Selling sporting goods with surfer Lance at K-mart when he isn't secretly assassinating cocky Latin American dictators for the Deep State. Just thinking out loud. Pure speculation on my part.
Oh, the horror of that ending . . .
Compulsory disclaimer. Finally, keep in mind that every major motion picture in modern times, let alone this deeply military-Intel-connected blockbuster, must be intently scrutinized. selectively censored and unofficially officially sanctioned with extreme prejudice by the seemingly omniscient Deep State Ministry of DisInformation Inteligencia.
Enough said, sir. Clearly insane, sir . . .
Pulp Fiction
What is pulp fiction? Fake stories shamelessly concocted to dramatize and glamorize the decadence, debauchery and pure evil of Los Angeles and Hollywood all the way back to La La Land's unholy inception. Why not just watch "Chinatown?"
What is the movie, considered by many non-Italian director Quentin Tarentino's best work? Or perhaps his only good creation, aside from maybe "Kill Bill." It's another enticing ensemble of big name stars playing hipster or just plain bad ass characters coolly condoning/humorizing violence, mayhem and murder. Making cocaine and heroine use look cool. And overdosing, almost amusing? And most importantly, gratuitously perpetuating the mainstream mafia misdirection myth. There is, after all, a much larger matrix of mafioso truly pulling the global strings. In the end, it's all about corrupting our clueless apathetic youth, desensitizing us to drug addiction and violence and generally promoting decadence, racial conflict and chaos throughout the land. Throw in some sexually degenerate neo-Nazi urban hillbillies and their sex slave gimp and what's not to love?
Travolta is the laughably pony-tailed druggie killer oddly coupled with his ruthless philosophical black hit man cohort, that credit card-hawking dude who's had at least a bit part in every movie since 1972 and "Together for Days" a/k/a "Black Cream." Vega/Travolta is put in the ludicrously unlikely position of body guarding/dating the mob boss's alluring wife (Uma Thurman), who also happens to be a semi-witty, hopeless junkie and a pretty good dance partner with a keen taste for overpriced milk shakes and burgers. Bruce Willis is the down-on-his-luck palooka who cleverly and heroically outwits his omnipotent mafia handlers. Peter Greene is the sexual degenerate neo-Nazi urban hillbilly, Zed. (In retrospect I could have sworn this role or some other was played by Matthew McGoo, but this must be another one of my own Mandela Effect false memories. My bad.)
Zed? I always suspected there was some meaningful archaic or occult purposefulness or otherwise gratuitous intrigue behind the name, Zed so I finally looked it up. **Short for Zedekiah. God of Righteousness. The last king of Judah who betrayed Nebuchadnezzar, entering into an alliance with the king of Egypt, resulting in his eventual capture and the merciless destruction of Jerusalem by vengeful Ned. Z's eyes were put out and he remained a prisoner until his death. ^^In occult symbology, Z also represents not surprisingly an ending, a new beginning, a sword, a lightning bolt and a weapon of the spirit. Also, one of the four minor Arcana suits in Tarot cards. Zed is dead, baby. Zed, a/k/a the god of righteousness, is dead . . .
Aside from an entertaining soundtrack, PF likewise features semi-interesting bit parts or cameos from the likes of Christopher Walken, Rosanna Arquette, Ving Rhames, Eric Stoltz, Steve Buscemi (Buddy Holly look-alike?), Harvey Keitel and the multi-talented QT, himself. Pure speculation here: Were the real-life versions of all those celebrity look-alike Jackrabbit Slim servers all faked/suspicious deaths? I'm just saying. You didn't hear that here.
Blade Runner
Admittedly, I am one of the biggest Blade Runner nerds around and it is still one of my lifelong favorites. A cult phenomenon growing in popularity over the years, it is not just another dumb sci-fi action flick in a dystopian world with great special effects. It's dark. It's deep. It asks meaningful existential questions. Who are we? Where do we come from? How do I know I'm not a Replicant? Who are the heroes and who are the villains here?
The purposeful Voight-Kampf test questions, designed to elicit an emotional response and detect the runaway super robots, are almost Socratic in nature. Why didn't you help that poor hurt tortoise, Leon? Why can't you recall any positive memories of your Mother? (Paraphrasing here, of course.)
The first mainstream cut seems to side-step the relevant issue, central to Philip K. Dick's "Do Androids Dream . . ." upon which Ridley Scott's Blade Runner is so famously based. The fact that Replicant-hunting Blade Runner Deckard (Harrison Ford) is, in fact, a Replicant himself. Does he know it? Does he even care? It also presents us with a compulsory, semi-clean getaway happy ending, complete with dreamy unicorns. Eventually, a far superior and meaningful Director's Cut was released, which likewise fixed some glaring technical issues. The Nordic-looking Rutger Hauer is quite brilliant as the physically and mentally superior villain, Roy Batty, the lead rogue Replicant zealously in search of "more life, Father." Accomplishing quite a rare feat in cinema, this singular complex character manages to elicit equal degrees of palpable fear, admiration and empathy in his doomed quest for more time on this shitty planet. Presumably to cause and extract more undisclosed mayhem and revenge?
Whether by design or not, Blade Runner has an interesting ambiguity about it. At the beginning it seems we are being alerted to the potential dangers of the predominance of AI and complex robots in this dreary future world we have to look forward to with these rogue killer Replicants on the loose. But by the end we really start to feel for the dying fugitives and antagonist Roy Batty at least, despite his violent nature, has become more relatable and probably more likable than cranky, low-key Blade Runner Deckard. Meanwhile, when considering the essence of Blade Runner, all roads lead back to author, Philip K. Dick.
Speaking of ambivalence, what's the real deal with Philip K. Dick? He was supposedly this mostly penniless, super-paranoid, drug-addled genius writer who was allegedly reduced to eating dog food or cat food while supposedly hobnobbing with both SoCal junkies and Silicon Valley insiders. Born 1928. Died in poverty, 1982? During the mid 40's Dick allegedly underwent serious psychiatric treatment in California and again off and on throughout his life. (Early MK-Ultra madness?) He was reportedly a student at U of C-Berkeley (See Joseph Tussman Experimental College, LSD testing, Terence McKenna, nuclear program.) His first known literary agent was a fellow named Scott Meredith. (Side note: Red flag waving here: Meredith was also the literary agent for known spook "agents" and deep insiders including Norman Mailer and Arthur C. Clarke.)
One story tells that at some point in the mid Fifties, the tragically poor Dick and his first wife were approached by the FBI to become well-paid informants in Mexico. Yet the Dicks refused, allegedly due to personal ethics? How interesting. What was happening in old Mexico, mid-Fifties that was so concerning to the Feds? And what exactly made this dirt-poor freelance sci-fi writer, a mentally unstable white guy from Chicago, and his wife such great candidates tor FBI spies infiltrating the dreaded drug cartels of Mexico or sticking their noses into some rogue Nazi cult or whatever? Did he speak fluent Spanish and make a great authentic burrito? So, how did the man support himself (and a serious drug habit) while taking on numerous stepchildren and marrying multiple times, briefly working at a record store, the poor guy supposedly unable to get a story published for years. Are we meant to believe that this literary imaginative genius, mentally ill or not, whose current estate must be worth untold millions if properly managed was forced to subsist on pet food, amphetamines and cigarettes most of his convoluted adult life?
(This, the same man whose stories inspired not only Blade Runner but directly or indirectly influenced such major Hollywood blockbusters and other fairly successful flicks as Total Recall, Minority Report, A Scanner Darkly, Screamers, Videodrome, The Adjustment Bureau, The Matrix, Dark City, eXistenZ, Eternal Sunshine of the Spotless Mind, The Truman Show, Waking Life, Inception and 12 Monkeys, as well as Electric Dreams and The Man in the High Castle currently on Amazon Prime.) Sounds plausible, especially considering how many other unlikely celebrity rags to riches stories we have been expected to swallow throughout celebrity history. **The only biography of PKD I've read is by Anthony Peake, an interesting author who writes mainly about life-after-death and consciousness, and whose Wikipedia bio is negatively skewed against him due to the lack of formal science in his education, and quite blatantly.
Back to the man himself, PKD reportedly described multiple experiences which came true in real life and which he had supposedly written about previously in his stories. Haven't we all? Dick also believed that the FBI or CIA or both were secretly and overtly surveilling him and his work and otherwise running psy-ops on him and generally messing with his mind in endless sinister ways for years. Join the club, pal.
Whatever the case, still love PKD. So many amazing stories. Big fan . . .
A.I.
Now here's a film I didn't exactly hate--because we don't use that word around here, Mister--but didn't much like either. Directed by Stephen Spielberg, Hollywood blockbuster big shot and lamestream media darling, at least back in the 80's/90's, this 2001 film was supposed to be Stanley Kubrick's final 2001 masterpiece before retiring around 2001 but was somehow appropriated from Kubrick well before 2001. Probably because he died. Perhaps he was offed in retribution for his too-revealing "Eyes Wide Shut" occult outing which was nonetheless badly butchered by Hollywood/Intel censors before its belated release in 1999. And/or other undisclosed reasons. Once again, pure speculation here, right.
Most parts of A.I. are super-boring, rather senseless and just downright annoying. It is little more than a futuristic remake of Disney's "Pinocchio," which I always hated as a kid and upon further review appears to be little more than a creepy, ass-inine fantasy reveal of pedophiles kidnapping young boys and other skin-crawling cartoon weirdness. This certainly sets the stage for Spielberg's A.I. offering. Pretty lame plot. Perpetuating the whole global warming gambit, dramatic climate change has wiped out most of the world's coastal populations and catalyzed the predominance of A.I. in the world.
An elite couple loses their son to a terrible disease. So of course they feel the need to replace him with a fake, super pricey, top of the line robot boy. Meanwhile, the non-robot son is miraculously cured of his terrible disease. Of course the inconveniently resurrected brat turns out to be a real butt. A total ass, get it? Moving on. This obviously begs the question, Who would want a permanent 10 yr old boy that never gets any older, etc.? Repeating now . . . never mind. Well, at this point this chronically confused candidate for mother of the year apparently doesn't have much use for the poor robot kid anymore. For some stupid insane reason she ends up abandoning the little guy (Haley Joel Osment/Osmond.) and his robot Teddy bear deep in the scary woods. Real nice, right.
That's all we really need to know about this egregiously overrated cluster-fuck. Jude Law (Gigolo Joe, seriously?) is semi-believable as a pretty boy sexbot the abandoned boy meets and befriends along the way of his rather contrived odyssey. A lot of other painfully boring stuff happens. The Flesh Fair carny scene is kind of amusing, until the amazingly lifelike AI boy is saved, so predictably. Then it gets even more stupid and confusing when we are flash-forwarded 2000 years into a future Ice Age where humans have become extinct and the AI's are super advanced or something, and finally some really really stupid stuff happens in "the place where dreams are born." Give me a break. The End.
Oh, the things mad genius Stanley Kubrick could have done with this pretentious super lame Spielberg pet project. Oy vay! . . .
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Footnotes:
^^My personal tribute to the legendary announcer and ex-Big Leaguer, Ken "Hawk" Harrelson, the voice of the Chicago White Sox for many years. This reference strangely begs another question. How fake is pro sports?
**A Life of Philip K. Dick, Anthony Peake.
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