— the killer inside me, jim thompson
any chance for me to suspend disbelief was shot to shit when our hero with his Perfectly Sculpted Three Day Scruff (and dopey indeterminate accent) looked more like a stripper in a cop costume than a cop on a three-year bender. i love the premise of a series based on intense melancholy but Perfectly Sculpted Three Day Scruff drives me fucking nuts; that shit works for abc, it should not work for a drama serieux.
when that girl was shot in the back of the head on The Walking Dead i asked out loud whether she was the first child killed in cold blood on primetime tv. no one knew but everyone said she had to die because she murdered her sister and she was crazy and that was that. no one mentioned humans are as capable as any zombie of barbarism; the difference being of course we do so with a free and rational fucking mind. i thought of this as i read about the State of Georgia executing a man last night: “None of the media witnesses reported seeing anything unusual, other than a guard fainting.”
there is melancholy in David Gordon Greens silliest stuff, but it is in his more serious movies of course where the melancholy is most profound. someone somewhere coined the term New Mannerists to describe Sophia Coppola and Wes Anderson, directors who evoke melancholy through small, precise and very real moments. Green was not mentioned. an oversight. he is, to me, as affecting, if not more so, because his movies are the most insecurely male.
— bill callahan, the sing
there were no cool older kids to serve as cultural guides, i was a typical eldest sibling autodidact, so i aint ever a snob over lapses in knowledge, especially since i seem to learn about Some Seminal Shit once a fucking week, but when im sitting in a pristine new bar in Greenpoint across the street from where i once lived and the only other patron asks the owner/bartender whether hes heard the “reggae cover” of Police & Thieves and the owner/bartender says he didnt know there was another version i come to the somewhat surprising realization that i had just bought drinks in a Fudruckers
ive been so taken with Fargo i spent the last 30 minutes walking up and down 34th street hoping some barker would ask something like Do you want to go to the top of the Empire State Building just so i can say Do I look like I want to go to the top of the Empire State Building? anyway, no one did, so i went into Staples and bought the kids pencil sharpeners.
— jenny offill, dept. of speculation
Dons “niece,” that house, Megan as Sharon Tate; the Manson vibe was a scythe-swinging motherfucker last night.
— friedrich von hugel
— cormac mccarthy
— donna tartt, the goldfinch