Vertigo. The come-churning journey of James Stewart as he spirals through a nightmare of sexual frustration along with the film, right down to the unbearable clitmax. An orgy of gorgeousity so splendid that
halfway through it, my appearance actually changed slightly, and I
changed my name to ‘Madeleine’. An odd experience, I know. But bare
with, this is all part of the satire. A satire so intricately crafted
that nobody – not even the greatest of film scholars – have realised
it’s a snickering lampooning work of satirical sublimeness. The vertigo shot in of itself is a satire of the very act of sex - as it penetrates the frame. The fact
that nobody else sees this, or even can sense the elements of the satire
oozing beneath the surface, is all part of the satire itself. Herein
lies its genius.
The first time I saw Vertigo, I actually developed a fear of heights and
began to stalk a woman to unimaginable ends. I became plump and large,
started talking in a dry English accent, only wanted to have sex with
blondes, and for some reason all of my chums named me ‘The Master of
Suspense’. That’s right. Vertigo is such an intensely psychological,
physical, spiritual and physiological experience, than when you watch
it, you experience metamorphosis. After seeing Vertigo, I became Alfred
Hitchcock.
And yes, this is all part of the satire.
However, the film is so effective, that one of my crushes at the time: a
woman who I oft imagined stripping down to her mere ‘undergarments’
whilst masturbating whilst in a pastoral field in England - is actually
pretending to be somebody else. I masturbated to a lie, wanked to a
deceit, rubbed off my orgasm projector to an object of mere
pseudo-existence. That’s right. Not only was I Alfred Hitchcock, but I
was also the character ‘Scottie’ from Vertigo – in fact, I didn’t just
transform into ‘Scottie’…oh no…I transformed into James Stewart himself.
Again, it all adds to the satire.
You may not think it does, and in
fact, you may completely disagree with me about this film being a
masterpiece of mockery – but, like I said before: that is the point of
the satire itself.
It’s so effortlessly satirical that nobody actually classes it as a
satire. This is of course symbolic – and if you think it’s not, then
it’s a metaphor about somebody not understanding a piece of symbolic
imagery – and thus a symbol: a ‘post-modern symbol’, if you will. And a satire.
The Greatest Film Critic Of All Time
In-depth film analysis and thought with Rudolpho "Buñuel" Ebert
Thursday, 5 September 2013
Wednesday, 24 April 2013
1 Minute Reviews: KANE
There is a moment in Citizen Kane where I actually turned into a rosebud. Yes, I began to grow petals in the most awkward of places, and just for irritation, pollen began to manifest itself near my scrotum – an awkward place considering that bees would buzz near me and gently nibble near my rather large appendages.
Oh, Citizen Kane. Magnum opic satire of society, an exploration of voyeurism, a prediction of the 9/11 disasters, a cure for HIV. Alas, Citizen Kane is many things, but great is certainly the most definite compliment one can apply to it. It is a jewel of cinema, a diamond of the lens, a ruby of the framed image, a platinum disc of mise-en-scene, a golden ball of intricately placed memories – yes, when viewing this grandiose masterpiece, the spectator isn’t merely viewing a filming, but watching a dream, watching life and the inner working of the subconscious unfold, specifically that of a bee nibbling on pollen that is dangerously close to my testacles.
Tuesday, 9 April 2013
Why Bergman Said "Ingen" To The Oscars: A Filmic Essay
As I'm sure
none of my many readers are aware (for once again, it is I that carries
the filmic wisdom), the master of the lens Ingmar Bergman, upon discovering
that his 1957 masterwork Wild Strawberries was nominated for the Academy
Award for Best Screenplay that year, wrote a letter to the Academy Awards
ordering them to take their dirty fingerprints off of his piece of pure cinema,
calling the Oscars a "humiliating institution."
Which, of
course, they are!! It is commonly suggested that all directors dream
of earning an Oscar, but to the upper
echelons of the cinematic hierarchical system (e.g. Bergman, Kubrick and
moi), getting an Oscar is the filmic equivalent of being given a second-hand lollipop
by Michael Bay's dumb children and a two-disc mint-condition copy of Transformers!!!!
Quite simply, Bergman's magnificent
achievements in cinema are far beyond the league of the types of films the
Oscars consider award-worthy. Why, *heh heh*, as I have quipped many a time, I
bet the Academy knows not even what indeed a strawberry is, let alone a wild
one. Next you'll be telling me Andrei Tarkovsky never won an award. Oh wait.
Oh, what's this? Bridge on the
River Kwai won Best Picture that year? Ha! Joke's on you, ignorantians. The
director's not even foreign. David Lean? Pfft. Might as well have directed Transformers
3. And I'd wager many a penny that you've never even heard of Jean-Luc
Godard. I suppose you think it's some sort of brand of skin care, hm?
You may believe you had redeemed
yourselves by giving four of your awards to Woody Allen, almost certainly
because you think he is the master of satire. And while Allen's works
are indeed satirically charged, and the man is a master of the film
reel, he is not the master of satire. That right belongs to Kubrick -
who you never gave a single Best Film or Best Director award to.
This is beyond inexcusable,
considering Kubrick is such a connosseur he deserves to win the Academy itself.
He is above the "Oscar" in every conceivable department, a man who
doesn't make films - he makes visual poetry. He makes lunches for the eyeballs,
dinners for the retinas - feasts for light itself. Kubrick's flawless
flow of visceral and visual versification can only be described of a concerto
of the lens itself, a Mozartian deity of the film cell, a Beethovenesque celebration
of mise-en-scene. The man leads the select few who carry the Kubrick eye; a
cult, a power, that can only be carried by those who truly understand pure
cinema.
Do you carry the Kubrick eye?
*scoff*, of course not. I bet you
carry the MICHAEL BAY eye, which (needless to say) is barely
anything in comparison to the godly Kubrick eye. Transformers is so
unspeakably horrible that it cannot even be categorized as a satire - that's
just how bad it is. In fact, calling it rape would be a compliment - it is the polar
opposite of film.
To those at the top of the corporate
film ladder such as myself, Michael Bay is only allowed to be referred to as
Satan, an unerathly evil come to spread it's spew all over cinema today. For
anyone without the intellect to carry the Kubrick, Bergman, or Trakovsky eye, go
back to your pit of destruction, death, and Transformers!!!!
Tuesday, 2 April 2013
Love & Death: A majestic satire
It was Arist Plat Socrates that once said: “The only true wisdom is in knowing you know nothing” – a marvellous quote I feel, a statement that wraps up life into a small paper-thin bundoir and tosses it into the air for all to observe.
On a sidenote, Woody Allen’s Love and Death is a marvellous and splendid satire. The word ‘splendid’ is so well suited to the films of Woody Allen because when observed thoroughly, one can see references to Eve being tempted to eat the apple, and thus causing sin to spread right across the world.
The films of Woody Allen can only be viewed whilst sipping on a glass of wine. Il est necesarry, as the French would put it. One must feel slightly intoxicated but never more so. Remember that quote I put at the beginning? Exactly.
Oh how Woody Allen’s moving paintings are mere verisimilitude to the testicles; I am so greatly reminded of the juxtaposition of thought that is often ambiguously unfolded in the great Cinematic Installations of connoisseur and transcendental filmmaker, Ingmar Bergman.
Imagine a small bird fluttering its wings and choking on a worm. It is in a forest. It is scared. The bird, that is, not the forest. Yet, it knows that God exists and is ever so familiar with the great languid poetry of Psalm 23: “He makes me lie down in green pastures, he leads me beside quiet waters, he refreshes my soul” – if you understand this, you will understand the films of Woody Allen, and thus will be moved by Love and Death. If you don’t, go watch Transformers. That is all.
Final Rating: 9.3/10
On a sidenote, Woody Allen’s Love and Death is a marvellous and splendid satire. The word ‘splendid’ is so well suited to the films of Woody Allen because when observed thoroughly, one can see references to Eve being tempted to eat the apple, and thus causing sin to spread right across the world.
The films of Woody Allen can only be viewed whilst sipping on a glass of wine. Il est necesarry, as the French would put it. One must feel slightly intoxicated but never more so. Remember that quote I put at the beginning? Exactly.
Oh how Woody Allen’s moving paintings are mere verisimilitude to the testicles; I am so greatly reminded of the juxtaposition of thought that is often ambiguously unfolded in the great Cinematic Installations of connoisseur and transcendental filmmaker, Ingmar Bergman.
Imagine a small bird fluttering its wings and choking on a worm. It is in a forest. It is scared. The bird, that is, not the forest. Yet, it knows that God exists and is ever so familiar with the great languid poetry of Psalm 23: “He makes me lie down in green pastures, he leads me beside quiet waters, he refreshes my soul” – if you understand this, you will understand the films of Woody Allen, and thus will be moved by Love and Death. If you don’t, go watch Transformers. That is all.
Final Rating: 9.3/10
Thursday, 6 December 2012
Eyes Wide Shut (1999): An Ethereal Odyssey (an in-depth analysis by Rudolpho "Buñuel" Ebert)
There is a
moment in Eyes Wide Shut where I actually reached orgasm. Naturally I
commended my unusually big appendages, but the film was one step ahead of me.
As it turned out, my experience was short-changed; the film's moral is that
it's not about the rub, it's about the lubricant.
Ah, Eyes
Wide Shut. One of the greatest films ever made for its sharp social satire;
a masterpiece simply stuffed with references and metaphors that either take a
dedicate film buff (*chuckle*, such as moi) to decipher, or things that only a
complete idiot (one that reaches the lower boundaries of the likes of Mark
Kermode) would miss in this masterpiece. This is a masterpiece; a sex film for
intellectuals; it nourishes on the brain like food for thought and vice versa,
less a wet dream than a wet nightmare.
The busty
Tom Cruise and the macho Nicole Kidman play a couple in America
who spend a night in Majimanor, with Kidman opening up to Cruise about a time
earlier on in their relationship where she did cheat on him did. The rest of
the movie is just Cruise wandering about. A fantastic, exciting premise.
The film is
a purely experiential one; the film has such an abstract beauty to it that
after watching it you wonder if it was but a figment of your imagination. And, of
course, we simply can't ignore the visionary Kubrick's various clues in
the film; you remember that shot where Tom Cruise is walking to the Rainbow
shop* and there are lampposts in the background? Those lampposts, though
initially percieved as erect penises, are actually slightly bent at the tip - a
hint of Cruise's questionable sexuality? And I mean the real life Cruise, not
the character. Of course, this was all Kubrick's intention.
And of course
we must discuss the Illuminati issue. Now, many Kubrick fans have come up with
a theory that Eyes Wide Shut is actually one big metaphor for the
Illuminati. And I'm here to tell you you're absolutely right, and this was
Kubrick's intention. And, of course, *chuckle*, of course the Illuminati
reacted by beating Kubrick to death, which is how he died, of course. I thought
everybody knew about that one, but apparently my canyons of intellect have
developed sooner than everyone else's.
Back to
matter, Eyes Wide Shut; a challenging masterpiece by the satirist,
visionary, connosieur, and cinematic genius Kubrick. This is one for his true
disciples; it will not bode well for those who do not carry the Kubrick eye,
but those guys are dipshits. Kubrick's final film is his magnum opus, an
ejaculation of art, a two-hour orgasm, a group sex expert, a doggy-style
challenger. If you can't cope with it, it only goes to show that you hate
cinema and you should feel bad.
FINAL RATING: 9.7/10
*The Rainbow shop itself is an allegory for plot holes in
the Bible. Also you can see Michael Jackson's ghost. Of course, this was all Kubrick's intention.
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