Inglorious Basterds: a review

I wasn't too excited about this movie after Tarantino's flop with "Deathproof". "Inglorious Basterds" proved me wrong and proved why even though Tarantino is just human and can fuck up, he can still make good movies and is perhaps still one of the most unique directors now a days. His firm grasp on entertaining and powerful scriptwriting and photography is displayed in a grand manner and by the gallons. The movie started with a black screen, the trademark Tarantino font used in Pulp Fiction, and a good song, and I knew right away that Tarantino wasnt going to dissapoint, in fact I might have been salivating (there's something to the opening credits in a Tarantino movie that is always so EPIC).

Quentin focused on his strengths for this film; fast action shoot-outs, humor in the midst of violence, amazing usage of music and dialogue as foreshadow, etc. The acting is superb, Brad Pitt, even though in my opinion a not very consistent actor, impresses everytime he is set in a relatively light-hearted character and he is actually funny and likable as Lt.Rain.

The plot miniutae is rather non-important (for the review's sake, I dont want to give the plot's details away, plus if the trailer is seen it gives a pretty good idea of what it is) for its really a typical Tarantino plot, except this time its actually in chronological order. Though a simple story of lets try to kill as many nazis as we can is at hand (the theme is revenge, again nothing new with Tarantino, but something he can do well),the pace of the story and the obvious self-consciousness of how ridiculous the movie gets adds an ironic, comical feel to it. The audience, or at least the audience familiar with his work should notice this ironic feel to the movie, and that Tarantino finally doesn't take himself as seriously as he used to. Maybe thats why Death Proof wasnt that good, because in that movie he is trying to make a good movie with less than half the amount of time his movies usually last. On the other hand, "Basterds" finds a mature Tarantino that knows has nothing more to prove as a director, and it shows in the light-hearted comical scenes that he achieves with the help of the excellent acting. All the actors, no matter how minimal the role was incredibly well cast, but there should be a special mention to Christoph Waltz, the guy that plays the German Nazi detective more than well.

New song "Relaxsation"

Also coming soon, a review of Thomas Pynchon's new book, Inherent Vice and of Henry Miller's "Tropic of Cancer".

Discover Simple, Private Sharing at Drop.io

Musik

La cancion es parte de la serie de canciones instrumentales "Summer". Esta se llama "Borges". que snobismo.

Discover Simple, Private Sharing at Drop.io

Three songs of Summer.

I've written this three songs during the summer and I like the fact that I dont sing in two of them. Very much shamelessly inspired by Ben Chasny (Six Organs of Admittance). I hope you like them.

You Are in It Forever- Guitars played by me and Chris Bowcutt.

Discover Simple, Private Sharing at Drop.io

A Summer Meditation- a loose, very loose thematic composition.

Discover Simple, Private Sharing at Drop.io

When Your Gone-The voice is sadly mine too. I think it's cute in its simplicity.

Discover Simple, Private Sharing at Drop.io

Pale Fire- Vladimir Nabokov

A book for people who don't mind wasting their time reading, that is for people who read willingly. Pale Fire is a multi-dimensional book, a playfully written book that was probably more fun for the writer to write than for the reader to read (at the end of a boring, extremely boring annotation the following cruel words-"I trust the reader has enjoyed this note"). This is the plot, a poem called Pale Fire, by an american deceased writer named John Shade, is published and annotated by a "friend", his scholarly neighbor Charles Kinbote. That's it. Preceded by an introduction by Kinbote, the poem is 999 lines and is in itself a good poem. Kinbote's commentary, or if you will, his reading of the poem is what gives the poem/novel it's amazing depth. Charles Kinbote might or might not be crazy, for his commentary is unusually personal, effectively making him the main character of the "novel", and many times the commentary really seems to be off, as in having nothing to do with what the poem is obviously about, John Shade's life. Withing the commentary Kinbote tries to convince the reader that the poem is about the far away kingdom he is from (Zembla) and it's last king.

If it wasnt for Mr. Nabokov's exquisite prose, his humor, and his borgesian sense of irony, this book could well have fallen flat in the hands of any other writer. Nabokov's usual themes of memory, invented memories, the past, literature, and strange coincidences is here, as well as his penchant for creating extreme and quirky characters, but what is truly rewarding is how the book embodies the relationship between reader/text/writer. John Shade doesn't write for Kinbote, but Kinbote feels it so (and what dedicated reader doesnt feel like that about an admired writer?). In a way, Nabokov cancels out the reader's perception of the story by giving it a fictional one in the form of Kinbote's commentaries, and through this notes, Nabokov mocks, yes, he elegantly mocks the love that takes readers of all kinds to read into books their own lives or other peoples lives or metaphores or whatever. Perhaps Mr. Nabokov understood better than anyone the miscommunications possible, actually the impossibility of complete communication when the reader faces the writer's text. Therefore, in an endearingly quirky way, Nabokov tells us through this book, that without a reader and his imagination, a poem, a novel, a short story or any text would be incredibly flat and incomplete without a co-creator, that is without a reader. Pale Fire, the novel, wouldn't be the novel it is without the crazy Kinbote, just like any text isn't complete until it is actually imagined or seen/read in the mind of a reader. This is what's so rewarding about Pale Fire (though boring it can get), the illustration of this symbiotic relationship between the writer/reader.

And then of course there's the word games and puns and language that are nothing but stimulating (though most linguistic games and references probably went over my head).

La Quinta Columna: Capitulo 2-Rick Moody

Pero, escúchenme antes que componga un capítulo de seis pulgadas sobre el convento, sobre el Capítulo del Medio-Oeste de la Asociación para un Apocalipsis y Pestilencia Fugaz, y las políticas internecinas pertenecientes, sobre hombres despedidos en Flint con dos adorables hijitas que van a escuelas parroquiales y un día despertaron y comenzaron a acumular montones de municiones marca Rhino y lanzagranadas, o sobre las calladas, las más escalofriantes, las que no tienen hobbies- las que no tienen jardinería o eventos sociales relacionados a la iglesia o reparticiones de comida para los necesitados- las que se encierran y viven para elegantes y teoréticas lineas de conspiración, antes que todo eso tengo que contarles sobre mi pueblito de Toledo, Ohio. Sobre la forma en que se abre encima de un lago, sobre como era cuando era una niña y habia gente en el borde del agua y las proverbiales tienditas propiedad de las familias locales, y la Calle Principal y una densidad de parroquias religiosas y los toures de los grandes musicales y una sinfonía que siempre tocaba mi pieza favorita, la Obertura 1812 de Tchaikovsky, pero que ahora, como prácticamente cualquier vendedor ambulante de telas o ajustador de demandas te dirá en su propia manera, es un pueblo fantasma: puedes caminar de un extremo al otro, por todo el lago, por los túneles subterráneos, los túneles que algún día conectaron el mall, ese proyecto del Renacimiento de Toledo, a diversos edificios de oficinas- edificios poblados talvéz el treinta porciento en estos días. Mira, allí esta el río, tan negro que debe correr con gasolina de bote, mira ahí esta el lago, limpio y sin róbalos tóxicos, y aquí estan las calles desiertas- desiertas con excepción para las niñas de la profesión más vieja del mundo- y negocios cerrados- con excepción a los stripclubs- El vapor de los reactores nucleares de fermi sopla las banderas quietas de los edificios municipales. El gobierno, el último jefe de las masas y todo esta tan plano, tan increiblemente plano, -podrá estar mas plano que cuando era una niña recien nacida?- tan plano que uno puedo ver esta Ashtabula, o Illinois o Michigan, y la única cosa que se puede ver, la única que invade, que perturba la planitud, es el brazo largo del A.S.A.P.

Toledo, veran, de donde vinimos, después que mi papa dejo el servicio militar, nosotros los 12, once niños y una niña, después que la Acción Policial Koreana- dónde mi papa estuvo en la línea que se enfrentó a los Chinos Rojos, donde fue el anfitrión de ese germen militar, Onchocerca valvulus, tipo B, similar pero no idéntico a la cestoda causante de la ceguera de río; Toledo, con su Río Maumee en llamas; Toledo, donde, después de relocarnos cada tres meses, por años, mi papa estableció mi familia por fin; Toledo, donde en brillantes días de otoño, cuando los carros tipicos andaban por el otro lado del estado, nosotros íbamos, los 14 de nosotros, a la zona de parqueo de la pista de carreras y practicábamos orden militar. Toledo, veran, donde yo fuí la chica más linda que atascó una docena de M-80s al chassis de una televisión de estado sólido marca Zenith! Miren como las chispas vuelan!

El Inmigrante Turista

Estaba sentado en el Malecon 2000 comiendo un suculento plato de salchipapas, viendo el verde y manso rio pasar. En el fondo se escuchaba la musica de Jose Luis Perales. El amor/ es una boca con sabor a miel/ es una lluvia en el atardecer/es un paraguas para dos./ Como un acto de fe, se me ocurre por las puras huevas mirar atras, a ver quien caminaba. Con unos tacos muy altos y una faldita reveladora vi caminar a una cholita rica en mi direccion general, acto seguido la escucho decir una palabrota y para mi horror y fascinacion, la veo escupir un monumental gargajo que por un pelito de verga no aterriza en mi zapato, un gargajazo que mataria de envidia a cualquier estibador. Miro mis salchipapas sabor a miel, miro el culo que se aleja, miro el gargajo, verde como el rio, miro el culo de nuevo. El amor/ es algo entre tu/ y yo. El culo desaparece, se va, y Guayaquil me deja con las ganas de nuevo. Mi ereccion muere, triste, solitaria y final.