RAW MP Top 25 Countdown of 2009 #4 Death Wish
Richardo’s Top 25 Countdown of 2009

December 22, 2009
#04

Song: Death Wish
Artist: Jadakiss feat. Lil Wayne
Album: The Last Kiss

Among my views of jadakiss and his album being one of the best of 2009, I loved all the songs on the albums, but this song stuck with me via its just raw and thorough, like don’t mess with me or I will end you type of vibe. It was amazing via I was doing battle with lots of things and I thought they had a death wish for messing with me.

“They must go a death wish”

Copyrighted 2009 Richardo A. Wilson
Richardo’s Top 25 Countdown of 2009

www.richardoawilson.com
www.twitter.com/rawmultimedia

*notice the huge skull on the back of Dixon’s dome….

“Each AK-47 Paper Model Kit comes with all the materials and instructions to construct this amazingly life-like paper model of an AK-47.

PLEASE NOTE: This is a very detailed project, requiring some attention to detail and time.”

Paint it flat black and it’ll get you arrested in the daytime.  At night, unarmed intruders will soil their chonies when they see the business end pointed in their direction.  As for armed intruders, it’s kind of a death sentence… for you.  It’s still cool, though, cuz u kn poze n stuf wit ur blng.

[Found here.]

Don’t let looks fool you, Michael Caine is still one hell of a bad-ass.

When a crew of drug-dealing gang members takes the life of his only friend, Leonard (David Bradley), retired Marine and widower Harry Brown (Michael Caine) decides to take the law into his own hands.

Now, what really pisses me off about this film, is that for a lot of Americans, they won’t be able to see this, due to its only release in Britain. And must I say that wow, you guys are really missing out on a lot.

While watching the film this is clearly the British ‘Gran Torino’ meets ‘Death Wish’ with a little bit of ‘Outlaw’ but that doesn’t ruin the film it’s just very noticeble.

The movie had me gripped from start to finish and although, apart from Harry, alot of the characters seem a bit two dimensional they are like that for a reason, so you are cheering everytime one of em gets it in the face, I mean it’s not a movie bout what a hard life these kids have had, although there is one boy that you get that sence with, it’s about justice for the wicked. Oh and if you don’t think that these guys are realistic then you ain’t met some of the people I have.

The cinematography is good and so is the sound track and both give you a great feeling of how grimey the place Harry lives in is as well as portraying the different emotions expressed in the movie.

The only problem I had with this film was that there are so many times it could have just shined when really it just doesn’t. The script isn’t that good, and to be brutally honest, there aren’t any instantaneous quotable or catchy lines in this film like Gran Torino.

Another problem with this film and it’s nothing that really maters but, even though it’s probably cheap, film makers should know that CG blood is not the way to do things. I know it affords more control but it just looks so fake… SO STOP DOING IT!

Michael Caine is suprisingly believable in this film as a gun toting mad man on revenge. He doesn’t come off as too cheesy, and he actually does show some weaknesses and comes off as being a normal human being. Some of the side performances weren’t great, although some of the teens did have some OK little strong performances, but nothing really special.

Consensus: Harry Brown isn’t great, but features great action, a very convincing performance from Caine, and an interesting, if done before, story.

8.5/10=Matinee!!

Crawled out of bed to an absolutely stunning snow scene. The sun was shining brightly and everything was magical. We got a few photos – see link.

Headachy today – smoking too much. I think about quitting all of the time but fail to do so. I need to do something VERY soon so I don’t end up like my mother. She had oxygen tanks in her home and was always connected via cannula – EXCEPT when she took it off to go to the back deck to smoke…. and this woman could barely breathe when not smoking. Fucking disgusting, sick addiction.

Something I’ve thought a lot about recently: I grew up with a death wish. I didn’t care if I lived or died and took extreme risks figuring (at first) that I’d be dead by age 18. That came and went and I gave myself until 21 and took even more risks. Then, I figured that 30 had to be the magic number. That I’d never see it. Here I am now at 50, still chugging along and far from healthy with a chronic, sometimes (most times) fatal disease that is never curable, but can be forced into remission.

I no longer harbor the death wish. I want to live on. I want to see grandchildren, if we should ever be blessed to have any. I want to be with my husband for many years to come. What I fear now is since I’ve decided that I DO want to survive is that I’ll be bitten in the ass and the Hep C will be the death of me at any time in the immediate future. Doesn’t that just suck?

The movie ‘Taken’ (scripted by Luc Besson and Robert Mark Kamen and directed by Pierre Morel) dispenses with any wishy-washy  details like political correctness or moral ambiguity. All we need to know is that Bryan Mills (Liam Neeson) is the good guy and all the other males are the baddies (this includes the French police).

As a retired CIA ‘preventer’ , Mills  knows bad things happen in the world. He’s proved right the moment  his daughter Kim lands in Paris having flown from the security (!) of LA . When she is abducted by Albanians to be sold into a life of prostitution, Mills springs into action and proceeds to clock up a massive body count to rescue her.

Neeson’s wraith is such that you almost expect him to yell ‘vengeance is mine’ as he single mindedly blitzes the opposition. As with James Bond movies and the Bourne trilogy you’re required to believe to take for granted that he is indestructible and immune from pain or doubt.

The rage and unhesitating cruelty he displays is deemed to be justified by virtue of the squalor and depravity of his rivals.  The vigilante ethos of this one man killing machine rapidly becomes the sole focus of the fast moving movie. Like Charles Bronson’s mission to rid the world of muggers in Death Wish. Neeson’s methods are equally ruthless and the pleasure of the movie lies solely in seeing the villains picked off one by one. In this respect it’s like the invigorating (if mindless) thrill you get from eliminating the bad guys in a computer game where there is no need to reason why – you just have to do or die.

Spot the Southland Driver

The Squallers took till the end of this post to refer to Invercargill’s appalling driving habits.  I have briefly touched on this in the past as well.

But yesterday began with taking the Big Nipper to school.  On the way up Martin St, a car did a U-turn in front of us outside the chemist.  I let it slide for the sake of the children’s vocabulary development.

Coming back from dropping him off, another car did the same thing.  This time there was a car in front of me who copped it, leaned on the horn, and gave them a blast.  I dunno what it is about Martin St.  Perhaps all the methadone programme people go to the chemist first thing in the morning and then try to drive.

Anyway,  I went to drop off the Wee Nipper at kindy.  On Conon St, not one, not two, but three cars obviously missed the driving lesson on pausing at give way signs.  Luckily the Wee Nipper wasn’t listening when I gave the third one (and closest near miss) the ‘Hone Harawira’.

Making it safely to the office, I didn’t have to go out again until 11.30am.  This time it was someone you can’t give the Hone too, an elderly member of the community who decided to go left, no straight ahead, no right, no straight ahead, no, just-stop-in-the-middle-of-the-bloody-intersection-and-have-a-cup-of-tea at the corner of Yarrow and Deveron Sts.  Luckily for me they decided to go left just as I had finally judged it safe to pass them in the left lane.  So they got a wee Hone.

Then something you normally only see in France.  Turning into Tweed St, I noted something of a jumble in the Nith/Tweed intersection.  These three were the people who missed the ‘wait until the intersection is clear before entering’.  Had I been a character in a Jerry Bruckheimer movie, I would have driven my armoured car right through the middle.  As it was, I had to be content with pulling the Peugeot up to the side of their car and tapping the side of my head before mouthing Hones.

And those were the ones I can tell without entering into my over-the-top reaction to others, such as the woman at the Rugby Park roundabout who (I kid you not) just approached, without a glance, and floored it.  Driving is not a computer game, luv.

I think the Squall roosters are right.  The Spirit of a Nation licence plate thingy used to be a badge of honour.  But now it is definitely a warning sign.  And a tip for the ICC.  If you want to make money, put a speed camera on Clyde Street heading south.  It might make enough to pay for a new pool in Bluff.  Just make sure the trigger speed setting is at 60kph.

UPDATED: On the school run again, car crash at the corner of Ness and Janet St (a block before the notorious Martin St).  Ambos, and Constable Jaytee cleaning up the mess.  Ness and Janet and Ythan and Janet are notorious for crashes.  But because we’re not north of the train tracks, we don’t get speed bumps…

Just woke up from a 30min nap. I love napping with a cold mask over my face. So refreshing! But I am still feeling tired! Boo!

I need to study for my combined quiz tomorrow. I need to practice on one more case study so as to be more prepared for thursday GSCM lab test. I need to study for the Citect test this friday. Zzz. And there is the NE trip tomorrow. Heavenly. I don’t see a purpose in scheduling us for the rubbish NE trips when we got so much stuff to study. Zzz. Waste of time and energy.

I am growing increasingly irritable now. Compassion level is at its lowest. Scram further away from me if you do not have a death wish.

Zzz.

A song that came to mine, and pretty much everyone else’s attention in my primary school class, due to the above gut-wrenchingly cheesy Peugeot 406 advert. Please, I implore you, just watch it once at least. It is awful I readily admit, but hilariously awful (or should that be awfully hilarious?… erm… no, it’s definitely hilariously awful). And perhaps it doesn’t need to be a whopping 3 minutes in length. And, just what the hell is going on in this advert anyway? I don’t remember all that nonsense about kneeling in front of tanks or the slut that ruins a nice dinner by scrambling onto the table, yanking some guy’s tie and then launching his glasses halfway across the restaurant. What’s so heroic about that? Well done, you’re a slag. What I remember it for most (apart from the song of course) is the little girl in the red jacket, who nearly gets run-over by a lorry until some anonymous punter dives to her rescue. And, if you ask me, she wanted to be flattened. Why is she just smiling at an onrushing mega-ton truck (at 1 min 25), about to crush her puny body into a little girl pancake? There should be an alternate version where she gets pulverised, with Angel of Death by Slayer replacing M People on soundtrack duties. I mean, it’s all a bit eerie really. With that red jacket on it only reminds me of ‘Don’t Look Now’, that horrifying film where the girl in the red jacket drowns at the start. What is it about red jackets that, the moment you adorn a little girl in one, they acquire some sort of death wish? Red Riding Hood anyone?

      But what can I say, thanks to this advert, this song stuck with me when I was kid. It’s catchy for sure, and Heather Small’s colossal voice elevates the uplifting message just splendidly. But boy is it corny.

Robert Ryan and Ida Lupino in "Beware My Lovely."

A bleak message surfaced this weekend watching three movies from two different eras which all deal with the same theme: the terrorizing of women. In 1952’s Beware My Lovely, Ida Lupino plays a war widow who runs a boarding house with good cheer and a strong work ethic. Preparing for the holidays, she hires Robert Ryan, a drifter with a penchant for tiny ties and blackouts, to do some odd jobs around the house. Lupino is lovely, with her shiny hair pulled up in an elaborate twist, and so demure in her long sleeves and long sweeping skirt, that she can barely bring herself to scream when Ryan starts freaking out on her. For that matter, in her confining clothes, she can barely run away from him. Ryan, it seems, suffers from severe psychological problems. An emotional meltdown is set in motion after Lupino’s boarder makes an innocent joke, and Lupino’s sassy niece makes things worse — a lot worse — when she derides Ryan’s masculinity after he rebuffs her overtures. Ryan certainly terrorizes Lupino, and fucks up her house, but keeps the physical harm to a relative minimum (see below) — a slap, an unwanted caress on the cheek, some rough handling –  before she uses her wits to get him out of her house and, we can only hope, into the hands of some heavy duty psychiatry.

Leslie Uggams in "Poor Pretty Eddie."

Leslie Uggams is the victimized woman at the center of Poor Pretty Eddie, a real piece of crap from 1975. Uggams plays a celebrity songstress who tries to get away from it all and ends up having car trouble at the motel from hell, a dive run by Shelley Winters, Ted Cassidy (Lurch from The Addams Family), and the eponymous Eddie (Michael Christian). Christian mysteriously “fixes” her car so that “only he can start it,” and shows up shirtless in Uggams’s bed. When she objects, he brutally rapes her in a stomach-turning scene that is intercut with Cassidy and friends watching dogs mating. Over the ensuing days, Uggams tries to get away, only to find that the town officials (including Slim Pickens as the sheriff) are just as rotten as her captors. Cassidy seems to want to help, but his efforts are too wanly executed (inexplicably so) to do any good. It is Cassidy at the end who opens fire on the town citizens who show up at the motel at the “wedding” that is being forced upon Uggams by Christian, and when he is finally killed, Uggams takes up where he lefts off — right before the movie abruptly ends.

Margaux and Mariel Hemingway in "Lipstick."

In Lipstick (1976), the late Margaux Hemingway plays a model who lives with her squeaky-voiced little sister, Mariel Hemingway. Mariel has a crush on her teacher, Chris Sarandon, and gets Margaux to agree to listen to his music. As Margaux is not a musician, it’s unclear why, but it furthers the “plot.” Sarandon shows up at a seaside photo shoot clutching a tape player and eyeballing the semi-nude Margaux, who is alternately posing for the cameras and smooching boyfriend Perry King. She doesn’t have time to listen to Sarandon’s music, so she invites him over for the following day. When he arrives at her highrise, however, she’s forgotten about the appointment and is taking a shower, so she has him wait as she puts on a diaphanous robe and then sits with him and his tape player. His “music” turns out to be a nonsense cacaphony, and when the phone rings, she eagerly takes the call. What follows is Sarandon’s eruption of rage and a sickeningly drawn-out, graphic rape scene that sure as hell seems meant to titillate the viewer.

The remainder of the movie focuses on a humiliating trial for Margaux — in which nude photographs of her are entered as “evidence” — which sees Sarandon smirk his way to a “not guilty” verdict despite prosecuting attorney Anne Bancroft’s middling efforts. As the final fifteen minutes of the film draw to a close, Margaux finds herself at a photo shoot in the very same building where Sarandon tinkers with a composition, and ultimately chases and brutalizes the kid sister, Mariel. Margaux whips out a shotgun a la the proud Hemingway family name, and shoots Sarandon multiple times in the crotch, rendering him dead and finally, without a smirk on his face. Quickly, we see an insert of Margaux at trial as the jury acquits her; there’s a freeze frame and the credits roll. As revenge dramas go, this one is as offensively piss poor as Poor Pretty Eddie. Who’s revenge is it supposed to be, Margaux’s revenge against the crimes suffered by her and her sister, or some type of revenge against women? In one of my favorite revenge flicks, Death Wish, Charles Bronson’s family — his wife and daughter, notably — are brutalized in the beginning and Bronson spends the rest of the film bringing his A game against New York City’s criminal element.

Revenge is a dish best served Bronson.

What I see is that as women became more and more sexualized in the cinema, the violence inflicted upon them became more and more sadistic. Ida Lupino in Beware My Lovely, in her high-necked blouse and pulled-up hair, is psychologically terrorized for the most part, but eventually uses her wits to defeat her tormentor and ends up snuggled up in an armchair with her dog. Uggams, a strong, no-nonsense woman who is quite definite about her boundries, is raped and otherwise degraded and humiliated. And finally, the ultimate in a sexualized woman — Margaux Hemingway as a model who uses her body to sell lipstick at the behest of the men in her life (“I just do what I’m told,” she says on the stand, where she and her sexuality — not her rapist — are on trial). It’s as if the very fact that she is willing to pose nude warrants the despicable and graphic rape that is committed upon her. And in a “man’s” revenge film like Death Wish, the majority of the movie is dedicated to the avenging of Bronson’s loved ones via serious ass-kicking. In a “women’s” so-called revenge film, the majority of the film focuses on the acts of crime perpetuated on the woman in the first place. It’s a very sad commentary, a bleak message that has been delivered to movie audiences. Time to watch some movies that focus on the strength of women as a much-needed palate cleanser.

Software used:

• Adobe Photoshop

• Adobe Illustrator

• CorelDRAW

¿ Siempre has pensado que de las películas policíacas de Charles Bronson no se puede sacar nada bueno?. Hoy intentaré demostrarte lo contrario. Cosa difícil verdad!!.

Existe una curiosidad en una de sus películas. El film en cuestión se llama Death Wish II. El argumento, es lo de menos. Lo bueno, viene en su banda sonora, que tiene su historia. Pero empecemos por el principio.

Michael Winner

La película estaba dirigida por Michael Winner que ya en 1974, había iniciado la secuela de Death Wish, contando también en el reparto con Charles Bronson. Es curioso, que el encargo le viniese de rebote, ya que la idea de la productora era contar con Lumet, para la dirección.

La anécdota para el recuerdo de esta segunda película, es que se puso en contacto ni más ni menos que con su vecino Jimmy Page, para pedirle que participara en la banda sonora de la película. Hemos de recordar que corrían mediados del año 81 cuando Page, aceptó el encargo. Hacía casi un par de años que los Zeppelín no sonaban. Y encima no eran buenos momentos para Jimmy Page. El batería de Led Zeppelín, John Bonham había muerto a finales de septiembre del año anterior, y Jimmy se encontraba en una época de inactividad musical.

Jimmy decidió ver la película y acepto el encargo, pero con la condición de que él pudiera hacer todo por su cuenta. Evidentemente, esto requería que se diera a Jimmy la película, y los tiempos de la misma, cosas que hoy en día sabemos que puede resultar muy peligroso. Pese a todo tanto productora como Michael aceptaron, con la condición de que lo realizase en pocas semanas. Todo el mundo deseaba que Jimmy volviese a su faceta creativa cuanto antes.

Aqui os dejo el  inicio y final de la película donde suena la música de Jimmy Page y aparece en los créditos de la misma:

Jimmy Page

La obra final contó con la presencia de Dave Matacks de Fairport Convention, a los teclados Gordon Edwards de Pretty Things y el veterano cantante Chris Farlowe. Jimmy Page utilizó un sintetizador de guitarra Roland en varios de sus temas.

Otra curiosidad de este disco, es que el corte Prelude, se basa (aunque desconozco si confirmado por el propio Jimmy Page) en el “Preludio N º 4 en Mi menor (Op. 28)” por Frédéric Chopin. La verdad que ante la evidencia, no hay nada más que decir.

Aquí os dejo precisamente una actuación donde interpreta esta canción.

El tema Who’s to Blame de esta banda sonora junto a Steve Winwood, ex del grupo Traffic.

Si quieres saber más curiosidades de Jimmy Page, igual te interesa saber su relación con Aleister Crowley. Desde Auricular Digital te damos la oportunidad de poder hacerlo. (Entrada de Aleister Crowley).

As pointed out to me by my colleague here on the blog, I’m the unofficial Gerard Butler reviewer here after writing this review for Law Abiding Citizen.  Of the movies I reviewed of his in the last few months, that include the romantic comedy The Ugly Truth and the action film Gamer, this was the best of his work this year thus far.

While this sounds like the start of a positive review, it’s not entirely.  There are positives here, yes, but it was also easy to pick out flaws and glitches.  Before I get too much into that, let me set up the basic storyline here beforehand.

Justice at any cost? It's always about money with you guys.

Director F. Gary Gray directs this thriller by mixing Charles Bronson’s Death Wish with Saw.  Here we get a man so fixated on revenge against the legal system that failed him when a murderer who killed his wife and daughter is granted a plea bargain.   Enter Jamie Foxx, the assistant DA who is more worried about his conviction rate and then becomes the focus of the cat and mouse game which Butler’s Clyde Shelton has designed for him 10 years after the murder itself.

The film starts out like a simple out for revenge thriller, but quickly becomes  ridiculous and brutal.  As you watch, you originally sympathise with Shelton and feel for him, but that changes when he becomes a heartless killer, not caring who gets harmed while he exacts his vigilante justice.

Gray tries to do the opposite with Foxx’s Nick Rice, but falls flat in the end.  Rice is such a self-centered person who puts his career ahead of his morals and his family that it is hard to feel connected to him at all.  Being the hero figure here, that doesn’t bode well.  Morally I felt a bit bad that I came out of this film feeling more for the loving family man turned heartless killer than the victims he claimed while seeking justice.  Scenes became so far-fetched that a secret military background had to be brought up by a so-called spy to help make Shelton’s move plausible in viewer’s eyes.

In the end I give this film 2 pitchforks.

Now that I got my Devils Advocates review out there, in reality I give Law Abiding Citizen 3 pitchforks for showcasing a consistently good range of acting from Gerard Butler.  Seeing him go from loving father/husband, to victim, to manipulator of the court, to killer was a treat.

Sylvester Stallone opens up about remaking the 1970’s exploitation vigilante classic, Death Wish. “I’m thinking about it,” Stallone says. He would continue to add the following:

“It’s a classic morality tale, where you take a civilized man and take away everything that matters to him so he becomes primitive again…The story’s been done many times, and when it’s done well, it’s an emotionally engaging film. The trouble with remakes is that people fall in love with the original. It’s like peanut butter. If you try to change the taste of peanut butter, you’re in trouble.”

John Rambo would also speak about the possibility of a Cliffhanger sequel. “I hear they’re gonna remake it,” he states. Poking fun at his age, the 63-year old action vet would go on to say, “You know you’ve been around when they start to remake your own movies when you’re still alive.” Stallone’s the man!

What’s next for Sly Stallone after, “The Expendables” and “Rambo 5″? Sly is thinking about either doing, “Death Wish” remake or the Edgar Allan Poe biopic next after the fifth “Rambo”. It seems he is more excited in remaking “Death Wish”.

Sly plans to star the leading role as Charles Bronson’s character, Paul Kersey, in “Death Wish” but he won’t be starring in the Edgar Allan Poe biopic at all. He needs a younger actor to play Poe.

More on it here:

http://www.empireonline.com/news/story.asp?NID=25959

That’s good news that Sly still wants to do “Death Wish” and “Edgar Allan Poe”. Looking forward to seeing what he’s going to do with them.

As to play a young Edgar Allan Poe, I would choose either Robert Downey Jr, Johnny Depp or Leo Dicaprio.

It really sucks Heath Ledger is gone, ’cause I think Heath would have been perfect for Poe.

Kev

Hollywood iron man Sylvester Stallone is all over the place at the moment. If he’s not drawing together the world’s most amazing cast of arse-kicking hard-as-nails I-drink-beer-while-I’m-smashing-things-to-pieces action stars for upcoming super-actioner The Expendables, or working out how to be the meanest looking 63-year-old on the planet in the next Rambo film, he’s deciding whether or not remake 1974 Charles Bronson classic, Death Wish.

The Italian Stallion has been speaking to Empire about how he hopes to put together a remake of the brutal exploitation flick, but at least he seems fairly grounded about the whole idea and is fully aware of just how much he could mess up, and just how much Charles Bronson would come back from the dead just to kick his arse if he did.

“It’s a classic morality tale, where you take a civilised man and take away everything that matters to him so he becomes primitive again,” he said, speaking in the interview.  “The story’s been done many times, and when it’s done well, it’s an emotionally engaging film. The trouble with remakes is that people fall in love with the original. It’s like peanut butter. If you try to change the taste of peanut butter, you’re in trouble.”

The more I hear from the Slyster these days the more I like him. At least he’s fully aware of how carefully he would have to tread about such a loved piece of cinema. Not only does he blatently know what he’s good at and what people want from him (ie smashing people’s heads in and killing generic South Americans with a machine gun the size of a cow) - but he does it exceptionally well. And how could you not love a man who can make peanut butter analogies and bring together Bruce Willis, Mickey Rourke, Jason Statham, Jet Li, Dolph Lundgren, Steve Austin, Sly himself and Arnold Schwarzenegger for at least an hour and a half of gun fights and explosions?

But I digress, here is a chance to see Bronson in all of his Death Wish, no-nonsense ass-kickery. If there’s a better way to get a seat on the subway I don’t know about it.

This should get me a bit of hate mail but it’s true. Okay, not ALL skateboarders are buttheads but the vast majority that I run into on the streets are. The ones that go to the skateboard parks and other safe areas to do their acrobatic feats of derring-do are no problem at all.

The ones that careen through traffic trying to race Death out of Darwin’s gene pool: now those are the giant buttheads. They care for little, not themselves, nor anyone else and have the arrogance that equates to a short life.

We have many forms of locomotion; cars, buses, bicycles, feet, motorcycles, roller blades and skateboards. Skateboards are the least suited to sidewalk and road. Bicyclists and motorcyclists ride small wheeled vehicles with their flesh exposed to the elements and the hard metal of other machines. They wear reflective and protective clothing, and helmets. Of course there would probably be a few death-wish hopefuls who would try to ride without helmets if it weren’t law, like it’s cool to have your brains splat on pavement or something. Cool to be stupid: that’s attractive.

Bicyclists, if they want to remain alive, pedal along beside cars as they can’t go as fast. Drivers and bicyclists should always respect each other’s space and cut out any ego issues. Unfortunately there are attitudes on both sides, but we can always dream of better tolerance. But back to skateboarders; they don’t wear protective or reflective clothing, they don’t wear helmets. Two fails right there.

Pedestrians have the right of way of sidewalks. They walk on them, not on the road where they would soon be road pizza. Of course there are butthead pedestrians who jaywalk in front of cars as if they own the road. But most stick to the sidewalks where they belong. Skateboarders get another fail for having a wheeled object on the sidewalk. Bikes aren’t allowed there; neither are skateboards.

Skateboarders don’t fit the rules of the road because they can’t go fast enough, not even as fast as a bike unless it’s downhill. They don’t wear the proper gear and on top of that they’re kicking a leg out and veering, long undulations in and out of traffic. Skateboarders don’t fit the rules of the sidewalk, because they’re on wheels. They’re hazardous to the pedestrians and often swerve all over the place.

On top of all this, they, who are least protected on the road, take the biggest risks, rolling down the middle of the street, nonchalantly getting out of the way–eventually, when a driver has had to break or slow down for them. It always amazes me that the less protection a person has from vehicles, it’s almost as if the arrogance goes up exponentially.

There is nothing more irritating or dangerous then guys flying down the road, or chugging along weaving in and out of cars and people, flipping up on curbs, doing near nose-dives onto pavement. Skateboards should be like ATVs, banned completely from roads and sidewalks and only given to certain terrain. The skateboard parks and abandoned underpasses are the ideal terrain for the skateboarder but not as a way through the streets.

A view of an extreme skateboarder’s world is revealed in Neal Stephenson’s Snow Crash where pizza drivers wield swords and couriers skateboard along freeways tossing their magnetized discs onto speeding vehicles to hitch a ride. (A review of this book is in a previous blog entry.) So I will stick with my thoughts that skateboarders on the streets today are buttheads, pursuing a delicate dance with death while endangering others.

NTKOG #23: The kind of seasoned beer drinker who sucks back pint after pint, indiscriminate of brand, pausing briefly only to bounce quarters off of her steely liver.

I am: a boozehouse, no doubt, and a bit of a fussy one, at that. I adore any classic gin or brandy cocktail, expertly shaken with fresh-squeezed juice and citrus.

I am not: despite all evidence to the contrary, a beer drinker. I’ve drunk wine at football games, the fourth of July, and, yes, even keggers.

The Scene: the neighborhood corner bar this evening. The bartender asks what I’ll have and I start to scan the rows of liquor bottles, then pause to take in his gauged ears and too-tight black T-shirt. He is clearly the kind of guy whose idea of class is a Grey Goose martini — hold the vermouth*.

A beer it friggin’ was.

I hemmed and hawed over the ten selections on draft before selecting a safe, reliable Oktoberfest and knocking it back a bit more quickly than I’d care to admit. When the Douchey But Admittedly Hot Bartender asked if I’d have another, I leaned in woozily:

TKOG: Hey, remember when you were a little kid at like a fast food restaurant? How you’d get the cup for soda and then go to the soda fountain–
DBAHB: –and put in a little of each drink?
TKOG: Yeah! A suicide! Has anyone ever…
DBAHB: There was this one guy, a regular, at a place I used to work who used to come in every night and just asy: “Brian, do your thing!”
TKOG: Well, Brian. Do your thing.

I watch Brian fiddle with various taps, tilt and swirl the glass, decant parts of the mixture, and top the whole elaborate concoction with a dollop of Guiness foam, like a cherry on top. He sets it down in front of me and it is — well, a beer, basically. Is what it looks like. Time to commit beericide.

I'm no gypsy beer suds reader, but I'm reasonably sure the suds on the glass are spelling out "HELP!" in some sort of ancient, hopsy runes.

The beer is actually not too friggin’ bad. The flavors are complexed and kind of layered, ranging from — and you’ll have to forgive the former drink-slinger here for lapsing into highly technical sommelier jargon — “skunky” to “gutted hobo” to “refreshingly and all too fleetingly like a lack of woodland creatures or indigent peoples.” Kind of the gustatory equivalent of chewing a whole handful of jellybeans. It was pleasantly interactive!

It reminded me of high school parties. The end, when the booze has inevitably run out, when those brawny of heart and late of curfew tiptoe through the wreckage, seeking half-full cups that had been recklessly discarded hours before, dumping them together, and snorking back the whole ungodly mess. It tastes like youth. But also, like, kind of unpleasant.

The Verdict: Holy shit, guys, I drank beer (!) in a bar, alone (!!), poured in a manner rarely seen outside of Taco Bell (!!!) soda fountains! Definitely my Delta Burke moment. But, you know, although it’s never going to be my first-choice beverage, and as hard as I tried to make it truly unswillable, I think after our little suicide mission, beer has finally grown on me. Despite the fact that it made me drunk-text The Ex on a Monday night. Dude, thanks for nothing, beer!

*Please do not ask me what is wrong with a Grey Goose “martini.” The simplest answer is that words mean things.  Martini, in particular, means a drink made of gin and either sweet or dry vermouth. Period. A Goose martini — hold the vermouth — is just vodka, guys.

Un film legendario e históricamente definitorio con un éxito con categoría de fenómeno sociológico que provocó una oleada de sub-productos (tanto americanos como especialmente europeos, léase italianos, la mayoría infames pero algunos más que rescatables como “Il cittadino si ribella” de Castellari, con Nero convertido al crimen para combatir el crimen, “exploit” instantáneo que certifica la asombrosa agilidad trapisondista del “cinema bis”), imitaciones y secuelas que se quedaban con la parte más superficial y embotada del invento. Pero principalmente la cinta supone la presentación del “vigilante”, evolución radical del policía insubordinado inmortalizado por Siegel e Eastwood (y sus tropeciéntos epígonos, claro) y sublimación de las fantasías justicieras, de la cruzada de un solo hombre contra una ciudad que simboliza la corrupción absoluta, la Babilonia moderna  indiferente ante la maldad y el sufrimiento de los semejantes.

Death Wish (El justiciero de la ciudad)

Director: Michael Winner

Año: 1974

País: Estados Unidos

Fotografía: Arthur J. Ornitz

Música: Herbie Hancock

Guión: Wendell Mayes según la novela de Brian Garfield “Death Wish”, 1972

Reparto: Charles Bronson, Hope Lange, Vincent Gardenia, William Redfield

sobre todos los vivos...y sobre los muertos

Una cinta de una ambigüedad ideológica resbaladiza en la que no es gratuito que el personaje sea un liberal que fue objetor de conciencia en Corea. Que aviva pasiones particularmente viscosas a base de apretar teclas sensibles y de conducir al espectador sin ningún tipo de piedad con ocasionales tácticas tirando a rastreras, el viaje a Tucson como mejor ejemplo, tierra idílica de hombres armados que resuelven sus propios problemas y casas entre soleadas colinas, todo casi grosero en su vulgaridad pero que  se salva al colocarlo siempre Winner dentro del punto de vista distorsionado de Kersey.

tu eres yo

Existe una maniobra consciente de identificar de modo tan sibilino como efectivo al espectador (pasivo), haciéndolo uno con el antihéroe (activo), pero que al tiempo no duda en convertir a este en un verdadero psicópata, lo que nos deja como público en una situación extraña y peligrosa, la fascinación de la violencia, el poder de la ferocidad, visualmente muy bien expresado con ese momento en el que Bronson contempla Nueva York a sus pies desde un azotea.Un personaje que nunca ataca (una de las grandes bazas ambiguas de la película, un escudo moral que sirve tanto para Kersey como para nosotros como participes de su cruzada) pero provoca que las cosas pasen (y nosotros también queremos que pasen), que sale a cazar, a buscar una dosis cada vez mayor (espléndida la reacción de euforia temblona tras el primer contacto con la venganza o la vomitera nerviosa tras el culminar el asesinato inaugural) que se sentirá mejor, feliz y renovado tras comenzar a matar pero que irónicamente, nunca buscará a los verdaderos culpables del crimen original.

Puede leerse también como una radiografía pasada por lija de la psicosis ciudadana, un tratado de la paranoia de la América acomodada, con la espita del miedo abierta a chorro, que usa el “vigilantismo”, toda una forma de sub-cultura para-policial y fascistoide con claros ejemplos en el imaginario popular y una malsana capacidad de fascinación, para analizar un contexto socio-económico infectado que convierte la desconfianza y la (ultra) violencia en causa y solución del conflicto. Cuenta con uso magistral de la portadas de los periódicos (estratégicamente colocados en el encuadre para que puedan leerse) y de los anuncios en vallas publicitarias que enseñan como el justiciero se convierte en figura “pop” y conforman todo un entramado narrativo subliminal realmente trabajado y muy inteligente. Un esfuerzo que logra junto con el reflejo de la reacción de la ciudadanía y la de las autoridades, que quieren que el “vigilante” se retiré porque comienzan a proliferar los imitadores con virulencia exponencial pero no desean arrestarlo para evitar convertirlo en símbolo, permite una panorámica del funcionamiento psicológico de estos fenómenos.

Since watching High Noon, I have been thinking about the concept of revenge and it’s presentation in film. High Noon may not qualify as a movie about revenge but it’s certainly a part of it. Other westerns make extensive use of the subject. Westerns are probably the main contributors of revenge in film.

American audiences sure love revenge films. But why is that? I guess the easy answer would be that it fits with the stereotypical American ideology. The bad guys get whatever comes to them, otherwise they wouldn’t be bad guys. Revenge somehow works its way into most movies. Why did Luke Skywalker go after Darth Vader? Because he blew up an inhabited planet and killed his father of course. I would imagine that destroying planets would be pretty high on the typical villain’s to-do list.

Many very good stories involve this single minded drive for vengence.  The Count of Monte Cristo is an excellent tale of revenge both in its book form and in the 2002 film version. Death Wish is also a movie based on a book about revenge. More recent movies like the Kill Bill series use it as the main focus and drive of the protagonist.

What most revenge films have in common is that they glorify it in some way, or at least justify it. Everyone loves the vigilantee who goes against the rules of society to punish the evil in ways that our legal system cannot or will not.

That’s why my favorite revenge film is Oldboy, a South Korean film about a man who is seemingly without reason kidnapped and locked in a room for 15 years then released without warning. He then goes on a quest to find out who and why anyone would do such a terrible act to him. This movie is dark and violent even for revenge films. But that’s not what makes it unique. What makes it great is that it starts with us rooting for the main character. But we are left wondering what he could have done to deserve such a punishment. 

The real kicker is the ending though. I won’t spoil anything but I will say that when he finally learns the truth, not only of who did this to him and why, but also of what he has unwittingly done during his quest for vengence, it shatters his soul. It’s easy to imagine that things might have been much better if he hadn’t gone on this quest. Even the villain, after all is done, asks himself what he will do now that his plot is over. He shows little joy or satisfaction and realizes that living for vengence is not living at all.

I will always be thankful for my friend Justin recommending this movie to me. I really like the way he first told me about it, so I’ll try to tell you what I remember him telling me about the ending:

“It’s awesome because the ending actually has a message. The whole story is just about how little revenge helps anyone.”

Vă solicit o donaţie. O donaţie poate chiar în bani, dacă pentru prea mulţi dintre voi (noi?) time is money. Vă conjur să dedicaţi ecologiei sociale şi grijii faţă de sociosferă o cantitate fixă de 6 minute şi 43 de secunde din preţiosul vostru timp. Suportaţi în întregime – insist, în întregime! – imaginile de mai jos.

Vă asigur că ceea ce aţi vizionat nu este creaţia regizorală a vreunui realizator de emisiuni fake reality show gen “Iubire interzisă”, “Test de fidelitate” sau “Trădaţi în dragoste”. Este un episod real din istoria contemporană a României, în care atenuanta stării de ebrietate nu poate fi luată în seamă.

Primul impuls, după ce asişti la o asemenea scenă, este bivalent, în funcţie de temperamentul fiecăruia: ori te duci la CEDO, te legi cu lanţuri de poartă şi afişezi o pancartă prin care ceri legalizarea eutanasiei de utilitate publică, ori revezi, pentru documentare, seria “Death Wish” cu Charles Bronson şi-ţi umpli ciorapul cu monede, sau îţi achiziţionezi, de peste Prut, un AKM cu ţeava scurtă. Căci ne aflăm, iată, în plin ciné-vérité, în plin thriller. Puneţi-vă în postura părintelui acelui băiat sau al unei fete aflate în aceeaşi situaţie (nu vă iluzionaţi că acel Sava ar putea avea scrupule sau jene faţă de femei). Şi întrebaţi-vă ce aţi face.

Îmi amintesc de un personaj oarecum istoric, din perioada Zarazei – atât de bine descrisă de Stelian Tănase în “Ziua” –, imediat după terminarea celui de-al doilea război mondial, când România era la fel de frământată infracţional şi de dezlânată social ca acum. Personajul se numea Alimănescu. Eugen Alimănescu. Şi era comisar de poliţie.  El a reuşit în mare măsură, după modelul lui Eliot Ness din Chicago, cu o brigadă de şoc numită “Fulger”, să rezolve problema bandelor şi a clanurilor de tip mafiot din Bucureşti. Descindea în locurile rău famate trăgea în plin apoi trăgea şi necesarul foc de avertisment. Cadavrele bandiţilor erau lăsate pe stradă câteva zile întru dreaptă pildă. Dacă oricum din punct de vedere economic şi financiar ne aflăm la zeci de ani în spatele Americii, de ce nu ne-am situa la aceeaşi distanţă temporală şi în ceea de priveşte modul de aplicare a soluţiei finale în domeniul combaterii marii infracţionalităţi?

Condamnarea şi pedeapsa cu moartea, în ţările în care mai funcţionează, este, aşa cum o definesc codurile penale respective, o PEDEAPSĂ. Criminalul este pedepsit cu cea mai cumplită pedeapsă pentru faptele sale. În situaţia de faţă nu avem, însă, ce pedepsi în sensul juridic sau chiar moral; nu se impune, deci, o măsură judiciară, ci doar una de salubrizare, de ecarisaj social. Criminalul are, de obicei, un mobil, rezultat al unui proces de gândire, crima lui este, ca şi în modelul biblic, un gest până la urmă uman. Pe când ceea ce se întâmplă în filmul de mai sus nu are nicio motivaţie omenească.

Mă uit în DEX pentru a vedea dacă gândesc bine…

OM, oameni, s.m. 1. Ființă superioară, socială, care se caracterizează prin gândire, inteligență și limbaj articulat, iar din punct de vedere morfologic prin poziția verticală a corpului și structura piciorului adaptată la aceasta, mâinile libere și apte de a efectua mișcări fine și creierul deosebit de dezvoltat.

OMÓR, omoruri, s.n. Faptul de a omorî; luarea vieții cuiva; crimă, omucidere, asasinat. ♦ (Jur.) Infracțiune care constă în uciderea unei persoane.

PERSOÁNĂ, persoane, s.f. 1. Individ al speciei umane, om considerat prin totalitatea însușirilor sale fizice și psihice; ființă omenească, ins.

Ce însuşiri comune are “chestia” aia din imagini cu definiţia omului, în afara morfologiei?  Sau aceştia din fotografia alăturată… Niciuna!

Este Sava un ceva superior sau social? Se caracterizează el prin gândire, inteligenţă şi limbaj articulat? Prezintă simptomele unui creier deosebit de dezvoltat? Categoric NU! În acest caz, mă întreb dacă eutanasierea lui, pentru binele comunităţii căreia el oricum nu-i aduce vreun beneficiu social, economic sau de orice altă natură, nu ar fi o măsură la fel de benefică ca măturatul străzii dimineaţa. Eliminarea fizică a unei astfel de entităţi nici n-ar fi, după DEX şi potrivit deducţiei logice, o infracţiune. Dincolo de hiperbolă, este cert că Sava nu are ce căuta printre oameni. Nici printre alţi deţinuţi oameni. Nu instig la violenţă, ci instig la  reconsiderarea unor concepte ca acelea de “om”, de “umanism”, de “milă”, de “democraţie” (Sava votează şi votul său este egal cu votul lui Liiceanu!).

Nu ştiu dacă Patapievici, când a scris “Omul recent” a avut în vedere şi astfel de “accidente” biologice.

“Manifestul Partidului Comunist” al lui Marx şi Engels, apărut în 1848 la Londra, preconiza o societate nouă, post-imperialistă, unde imperialismul era definit ca ultimă fază de dezvoltare a capitalismului. Comunismul a fost implementat, însă, în mod derogator, de către Lenin într-o ţară încă medievală cu o societate căreia pattern-ul teoretic gândit la Londra nu i se potrivea sub nicio formă. Astfel a ajuns comunismul “ştiintific” un sistem social şi politic criminal. Este o lecţie a istoriei pe care noi n-am luat-o în serios. Am dorit cu ardoare să facem ca Lenin: să implementăm, dintr-o dată, o democraţie avansată, văzută şi cunoscută  doar prin prisma shop-urilor de dinainte de 1989,  într-un mediu social impropriu. Urmările acestui gest fatal se văd, de 20 de ani încoace, în toate domeniile, din păcate.

Omul “recent” este nu numai omul lui Patapievici, om “recent” este şi victima omului “recent” al lui Patapievici. Astfel încât România a ajuns, printr-un fel de osmoză, ţara unui popor “recent” cu totul.

Soluţiile nu par a fi evidente. Emigrarea nu este o rezolvare decât tot pentru un om “recent”, condiţionat preponderent de valori materiale şi dezinhibat de tarele emoţionale ale legăturilor afective. Acţiunea politică onestă este blocată de un sistem instituţional infestat cu germenii patogeni ai cumetriei cronice intra- sau trans-partinice. Societatea civilă a ajuns mai înregimentată ca o cazarmă şi mai venală ca muza lui Baudelaire. Mass media induce, tot mai profund şi practic continuu, sentimentul de greaţă. În sfârşit, Statul, cel chemat în mod oficial să rezolve orice probleme, este demantelat de răfuielile clanurilor celor trei puteri.

Ar rămâne doar societatea simplă, purtătoare teoretică a genomului naţiei, societatea disimulată şi latentă, din spatele societăţii care se duce la mall, care umblă pe stradă claxonând cu claxonul sau cu vocea. Este societatea tăcută care îşi aşteaptă rândul. Poate că trupul ei se află doar în burta din burta din burta burţii femeii însărcinate care mâine va naşte. Noi, cei de astăzi, n-o putem spera şi n-o putem percepe decât cu simţul patriotismului.

Până atunci, Sava şi cei ca el, trebuie să dispară. Prin lege, dacă prin selecţie naturală nu se poate. Ba, din contră, aşa cum constata şi Mihai Bendeac în deja celebra lui “Scrisoare către cocalari“, aceşti Sava nu numai că nu dispar, dar se şi perpetuează ca specie, înmulţindu-se într-un mod atroce, de te gândeşti dacă nu cumva de-abia acum se manifestă efectele dezastrului de la Cernobîl, prin apariţia acestor mutanţi, cărora o analiză de ADN le-ar putea stabili identitatea biologică.

Şi soluţia lui Bendeac, cu care mă aflu în consonanţă, este, cu siguranţă, tot de sorginte “bronsoniană”:

«Apoi m-am revoltat! Şi m-am gândit ce mult mi-aş dori să am pistol legal, cu permis, şi de câte ori se întâmplă să dau peste un animal ca ăsta să trec pe lângă el şi să-l înjur în şoaptă de mamă. El va lua foc şi mă va lovi. Eu scot pistolul şi poc! Direct în cap! Legitimă aparare. Cât despre faptul că aştia fac copii, cu regret vă spun că uşor-uşor devin extremist în cel mai dur sens al termenului… »

Întrucât unui vigilante i-ar fi greu să facă faţă cantităţii de marfă aflate pe străzi şi pentru că sunt un om paşnic, aş propune varianta cu  “legea eutanasierii de utilitate publică”.

Şi pentru că ştiu că nu este politically correct, evit să dezvolt subiectul, dar mă gandesc uneori la… EUGENIE. Accentul îl puneţi voi unde vreţi.

P.S. – Adaug în continuare evidenta, fireasca şi necesara “întrebare deschisă” adresată ministerului de interne şi poliţiei române.

***

© Alexandru Dan Mitache • 2009

This story on CNN’s site  explores the male obsession with the female with the red hair. At one point the writer claims there is no complementary obsession on the part of women toward red-haired men. I beg to differ, because

I WAS A MALE REDHEAD

That’s right, there was a time when my head was literally sprouting thick luxurious wavy locks of strawberry-blonde goodness that were the envy of other males and the lusting heart’s desire of all women, no matter what age or even sexual orientation. I had an advantage over other red-headed males in that my skin wasn’t entirely lacking in pigment, a la Conan O’Brien. And just to make things even harder to resist, I had a full beard of sumptuously silken red whiskers.

Sadly, those days are gone now, and all that remains to me is a red fringe around my bald head. My beard has turned gray. I am no longer universally admired and lusted-after.

Okay – I never was. But there are women who have The Thing for redheads. And no matter how young or old they are, whether married or single, they just don’t seem able to control it. I, of course, have always been much too noble to take advantage of these poor disturbed creatures – not even my mom’s best friend when I was a teenager. She was the one who would always grab my ass when no one was looking and stick her tongue in my ear. I never succumbed to that. Never. I swear.

I, too, went through my period of fascination with red-headed women. There really is something about them that was at first difficult to articulate. And then, one day in the midst of a particularly onerous red-on-red relationship, it hit me. You know the story about how if there are 100 men in a room, and 99 of them are the nicest guys on the planet, all the women will be crowded around the one asshole? That’s the deal with red-headed women, but in reverse, gender-wise. I will, for my self-image’s sake, not speculate as to how this applies to red-haired men.

This is a relatively good mood

In short, redheads are bitches. They think their poo smells like roses. They know they are a rarity, DNA-wise, and they think that makes them special. Redheads will give you the time of day, then several hours of the evening, and then kick your sorry ass out in the morning and scream someone else’s name at you as they slam the door. All redheads are in some way psycho. And men eat this stuff up. I call it The Redheaded Death Wish.

This is similar to, but much scarier than, the well-known Italian Babe Death Wish. Italian women have an inverted menstrual cycle: you get maybe three, four, five good days a month if you’re lucky. The rest of the time you might as well be living with a serial killer. But with Italian women you know what’s coming.

Redheads are scary because of the lightning-fast switch from the woman of your dreams who does all that nasty stuff you only read about, to this vicious sort-of badger-woman who will peel the skin off your face and then eat it, raw, right in front of you. One minute she’s telling your friends what a great guy you are, and the next she’s holding her hands apart as if sizing a fish she caught – a very small fish. And they are laughing, and she is looking at you with that “burn in Hell where little worms like you belong” look in her eyes – the one that is very similar to the “when I get you home I’m gonna put rug burns on your ass on the living room carpet” look, and if you aren’t totally on your game, you’re not sure which you’re getting.

So I have reformed, just as a matter of self preservation, because female redheads are the preying mantis of our species. Give me a nice tall, thin, raven-haired Anglo-Saxon, or a well-rounded Brazilian with that insanely curly brown hair, or a muscular Israeli woman who can field-strip an automatic rifle and beat me arm wrestling. Something I can deal with. Because now and then you have to get some sleep, and if you live with a redhead you damn well better sleep with one eye open.

Quentin Tarantinos Inglourious Basterds är en enorm succé. Det är i och för sig inte överraskande, det är en briljant sitcom med lysande manus och naturligtvis blir det hela ännu bättre av att en stor del av aktörerna är uppklädda i SS-uniform.

Filmen, en remake av en italiensk b-film från 70-talet, är också en fullkomlig orgie i referenser. För ovanlighetens skull när det gäller Tarantino inte till lagom patinerad trash-kultur, utan till Leni Riefenstahls alpinistfilmer, tysk mellankrigsfilm över huvud taget, King Kong och den tyske indianboksförfattaren Karl May.

Titelns Inglourious Basterds är ett irreguljärt judiskt förband inom US Army som opererar bakom fiendens linjer i Frankrike 1944. De ägnar sig åt en extremt osannolik operation som inte går ut på sabotge och spaning för att underlätta för den allierade invasionsstyrkan, utan på att personligen döda så många tyska soldater som möjligt, för hand och med bollträn om nödvändigt. Offren skalperas.

Som tur är utvecklas filmen från denna grottmännisko-”München“-plot till en otroligt underhållande matinéfilm som samtidigt är en drift med 60- och 70-talets alla b-filmer med irreguljära allierade styrkor som iförda SS-uniformer pangar tonvis med nazister med Schmeissers.

Sammanlagt två personer i filmen ges någon form av djupare karaktär – en judisk biografägarinna och hennes pojkvän, resten är tvådimensionella figurer byggda för att skjutas ner. Detta inbegriper även The Inglourious Basterds, som förutom att vara extremt brutala och osympatiska även är ganska klantiga.

Det finns helt enkelt ett antal lager av kitsch, referenser och ironi i filmen, och det går helt enkelt inte att se den som berättelsen om ett gäng man ska jubla åt när de mördar tyskar.

Det är det naturligtvis risk att ganska många människor gör ändå, och jag undrar hur mycket problem  självmedvetenheten i modern underhållningsfilm faktiskt skapar för tolkningen av den. Sjuttiotalets ultrahårda ultrahögerfilmer som Dirty Harry och Death Wish-serien saknar ironi, Clintan och Charles Bronson är precis vad de ger sig ut för att vara. För att inte tala om Rambo.

Ställ dem mot exempelvis Inglourious Basterds, eller den påkostade skitfilmen 300. Det är inte på grund av sitt på ytan tokfascistiska budskap 300 fallerar, utan för att den är så förtvivlat tråkig. Det fascistiska budskapet går helt enkelt inte att ta på allvar med det skruvade formspråk filmen har, och samma är det med Inglourious Basterds primitiva hämndtema där varje tysk menig förtjänar att åtminstone få ansiktet sönderskuret. Specialstyrkan framstår mer som ett gäng östeuropeiska boneheads än en elittrupp, när de ristar in hakkors i ansiktet på sina fiender och slår ihjäl dem med baseballträn.

Samtidigt riskerar detta gå över huvudet på många biobesökare, precis som 300 både sågades och hyllades, alltefter personliga preferenser, av folk som missuppfattat den som en simpel fascistfilm.

Jag kommer att tänka på ett äldre exempel, långt bättre än 300 och en helt annan sorts film än Inglourious Basterds. Paul Verhoevens Starship Troopers fick skäll av mindre begåvade tittare som fick för sig att de sett en film med ett högerextremt budskap, medan vi andra hånskrattade åt deras oförmåga att förstå ironi och satir. Samtidigt satt en majoritet filmtittare och njöt av smaskig SF-action utan att reflektera över eventuella budskap alls. Huruvida det innebär att de ändå accepterade den spartanska krigarideologin som genomsyrar Verhoevens framtidssamhälle där alla i hela världen talar amerikanska är en öppen fråga.

Så tar de flesta antagligen även Inglourious Basterds, och går därmed miste om flera dimensioner i filmupplevelsen. För att inte tala om de högerextremister som tar tyskslaktandet på blodigt allvar – och samtidigt hyllar 300. På allvar.

Mer om Inglourious Basterds, Inglorious Bastards, Quentin Tarantino, WWII, Nazister, Leni Riefenstahl, King Kong, Karl May, Paul Verhoeven, Starship Troopers, The 300, Zack Snyder, Dirty Harry, Clint Eastwood, Charles Bronson, Death Wish, Rambo