I’m here this morning to write utterly useless things.
Number one is that one of the best films I’ve ever seen was the 1996 film Pale Saints. Who could have thought that this masterpiece hails from Canada? Who could ever resist a riveting Russian roulette scene?
But wait, let me digress. About Russian roulette in movies. It’s not just a gun game where you twirl the barrel and fire goddamnit. it’s an art form, parallel to a dance with the devil, hence, requires all seriousness and treatment, with just the right amount of humour. And with Pale Saints… mwah! very nicely done. Makes me wish I’d chosen the bullet. Bang!
Absolute madness.
I wish, as in the film, that I were an undercover agent named Chicklet in groovy 70′s clothes, walking to my apartment to the The Zombie’s She’s Not There. Please, may I be reincarnated as an undercover agent? Chicklet. I love these small-time hood names – Gus, Hef, Vic, Dody, Whitey, The Pirate… take yer pick, cowboys.
It’s got the right amount of surrealism too, just like the bite of a procompsognathus, those cute late Triassic dinosaurs whose poison gave you the feeling of lightheadedness and cloudwalking.
Cinemax used to show this around 3 years ago, along with that film of Oliver Milburn who changed the definition of “hepcat” in my personal dictionary. Now, movies in the movie channels are, to say very appropriately for lack of an articulate term, dumb.
Sean Lennon’s album, which I think did not receive the credit it deserved because his songs are incomparable to good old Daddy’s stuff: If, theoretically, their works were placed side by side in a record bar without any background knowledge or connection – I would pick Sean Lennon’s album.
PS. Dear Pitas,
What is the matter with you, that my beloved boyfriend cannot properly open my birthday present? The cat and I are slightly bemused by the lack of direction, hey you, hey you (not my words)
