“You can’t stamp on a man’s corns when he’s got his feet cut off.”
— the killer inside me, jim thompson
— 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
all her fault, holly golightly & the brokeoffs
one of those atavistically ramshackle but immediate records that seemed to come out once a month in the late 90s; who knew those discoveries would dry up and Beck would become a pretentious bore?
At first, this buddy pairing seems like a funky dialectic: when Rust rants, Marty rolls his eyes. But, six episodes in, I’ve come to suspect that the show is dead serious about this dude. Rust is a heretic with a heart of gold. He’s our fetish object—the cop who keeps digging when everyone ignores the truth, the action hero who rescues children in the midst of violent chaos, the outsider with painful secrets and harsh truths and nice arms.
this is my fear—rust as avenging angel. the more ballyhooed point of nussbaums takedown is the cardboard depth of the shows female characters. to me, the other side of the same coin: this is an abjectly male narrative, words falling out with bravado, insecurity, bullshit. the sort of genre transcendence i hope for will come with an icky and affecting revelation about our True Detectives, not some cypress-hidden boogeymen. i like that the stereotypical two-timing guys guy marty (heart) appears alternately normal and boring next to the cerebral rust with his thrilling malevolence. i like that both men and women are unwittingly cheering for a monster, bored with what usually passes for monstrousness in their everyday lives. of course im bound to be disappointed, but until then, what she said:
Sure, I know these people. I know this story. And yet, there’s always something simmering and slithering beneath the surface that scares me sideways.