Friday, January 31, 2020
By special request, to round them up for easy reference. Here is Acidemic's Tarot Deck of CinemArchetypes, a guide to analyzing cinema and its connection to your own reality and life via Jungian archetypal psychology. Things are about to get weird. But then aren't they always? Peel the onion and it all leads here...
There are a couple more of these on the docket, including "Elementals," and the long-awaited "Der Trumpen," (can't get to that one til the smoke clears, and the fire rages on). But to round them up for easy linking. Here is the Tarot Deck of Cinematic Types and their Jungian array-aage
Friday, January 03, 2020
It's maybe a strange accident all the films on this list are American (save one), but I doubt it. American flag hashtag! Sorry, Rest of the World, in about one to five more years we should get our act back together, electoral college wise. I guess all we can do until then is crank out adrenalin-packed escapism and say: 'Welt, warum nicht kommt verschwinden im Kaninchenbaumit mit uns? Wir haben CBD!'
Argue about ART in cinema all you want, oh my brothers, but the words "fake news" have forever torn asunder consensual reality. Meanwhile all western institutions have long learned to incorporate their own critiques ("fight corporations with Coke!". Even addictioin has become an escapist fantasy. Kansas mud-mired Dorothy misses Oz so much she keeps hitting herself on the head to simulate a tornado, but with every visit, the Technicolor of Oz fades just a bit more to muddy red. Back in Kansas she finds her vision permanently blurred from all the concussions. It's called addiction, Dorothy! And one look at your Kansas reality and we can't quite blame you. Next time, ask old Huck if he has some corn mash back of the hog shed. Makes the sepia glow real pretty. Ain't Oz, but it's all right.
For me, the best films are those that embody archetypal myths, the mirror shield with which we may behold Medusa. Beheld directly, she offers only the wrong kind of stoning. This factors into these choices: 2011's Melancholia is way too apt for repeat viewings. I cried during Tree of Life (also 2011) but I watched it in the theater mere minutes after I had taken shrooms, and got a call--in the theater before the show started--that my dad was dying. So the fact I had a spiritual experience watching that fancy-flighting folly disqualifies my judgement. After six viewings, I still am only halfway to appreciating Inherent Vice. Maybe I'd resonate differently with it if I lived in LA? It took me 20 viewings to appreciate Big Lebowski. What a ride that's been. Now I love it. I'm cuckoo for it.
These picks of the decade aren't merely some laborious bourgeois corralling of international art films about social injustice or average bloke sink washing--who needs 'em? These are the films from this decade that vibrated my kundalini fibers with their astonishing Perseus shield mythic acumen. You may disagree with my selections, but what does it matter? Agreement is a thing proved futile. This kind of decade is beyond mere time and passing, it's become like a marijuana plant, trimmed at the top to skunk it out: fertile but stunted, outward bound but trapped in the confines of its closet. We shall overcome.... again.... and again. There is no there or even here, just 1s, 0s and synapses.
1. IT FOLLOWS
(2015) Dir. David Thomas Mitchell
(2015) Dir Denis Villeneuve
(2017) Directed by Darren Aronofsky
One of the trippiest, wildest, most insane biblical fables ever, it's also a perfect emblem of its #metoo / Greta and the Global Meltdown moment. On one level, it's about a pregnant woman seeking vengeance after her house is treated like astro-turf by that grinding, rending, overpopulating violent cleat-wearing mosh pit plague some call humanity. Meanwhile her husband--a famous poet and/or God-- forgives them their trespasses. And as someone who has spent his fair share of really bad acid trips at his own over-crowded house parties, with people I don't know rummaging through my room (and me tongue stop-tied toot out kick them), I, as we say in AA, really related. And the magic of Aronofsky comes with the gradual escalation from a single night's poetry book release party with a handful of fans on the front lawn to a full scale house-trashing riot, and then beyond, all in real time, as Jennifer Lawrence moves from room to room, trying to prevent each new destructive urge of her uninvited guests. It's so familiar to those horrible house parties I began to feel that old tang on my tongue, the sweat on my palms. I wanted to run to my room and lock the door before the seagulls could strip it dry in search of souvenirs, whiskey dregs, and cassette mix labels to lick for possible holy lysergic residue. With one of the best and sexiest actors alive, Javier Bardem as the benign poet husband/god, always inviting in more and more of the great unwashed, forgiving each new atrocity. It's beyond horrible, back into blissful, and farther into the abyss of religious allegorical truth than any other film since Dogville. It's weird, but it's not as sadistic or pretentious as some of Aronofsky's earlier work. It's the allegory we deserve right now, and Jennifer Lawrence--so terrible in her last few 'big' pictures (ala X-Men)--redeems herself in spades as her generation's golden wild child. (more)