kinocow

the grass is always green on the screen

A film by Aki Kaurismäki

Pay for the flat two months in advance, cash. File all notebooks and books, seal and pack them. Put them in the street corner where the free clothes and old books overflow from an ageing hippie's window. Be unseen, make no friends. Have a tape for company, singing John Yager's “Benson, Arizona”.

Benson, Arizona, blew warm wind through your hair My body flies the galaxy, my heart longs to be there Benson, Arizona, the same stars in the sky But they seemed so much kinder when we watched them, you and I

Remember the idea you once heard on the U-bahn? The idea that the easiest way to die is to drink two bottles of high grain Finnish vodka and sleep naked on a cold street? The alcohol will easen the hypothermia and one dies in the hotness of the cold. Have no papers what so ever, they are shattered and scattered all across small rest stops in Sweden and Norway. Cancel all accounts, stuff all your pockets with small change and feel rich. So much paper, maybe give some homeless guy a 100 and a bottle of champagne. Talk to him (or her), ask how he moves. Friends receive post-dated letters, cryptic enough to validate a disappearance but not distant to accommodate the fear of death. Burn all certificates, flush them down the toilet. They are a chain – a tether to concepts sold to you, and us. Ridding of all official documentation is the destruction of the social self, home is nothing but an illusion. There never was a home outside of us, just a constant search for one. The tape recorder creaks the same song on loop.

Buy tickets with your spare cash. Be kind to the clerk, be kind to anyone you meet. Give them a genuine human interaction, that is to say don't be an ant. No fake hellos and goodbyes. Drink with merry in bars with bad music and worse patrons, let the beer overflow in preparation for the vodka singes. Bathe in cold water, soak but don't dry. Every experience is in preparation for the final one – know that you are time and time projects the whole universe in you, 13.6 billion years if the current view is to believed. A name is the first employ of funneling personality. Name yourself anything else, Fish is a good suggestion. Dry on the Nordic shores, salted through frozen waves. There's the mermaid Ice Queen sitting somewhere in a costume. Go out to find her, in places where the language is the final diffusion of silence into emotion. A long dinner table covered in red tablecloth, plastic flowers wilting. Cook your chicken in the embers of your accumulated love. One final dusk, reds, dark violets and pluming clouds. Fall in love at every opportune moment. The cadaver if eaten by a wolf will bear the little symbolism of your existence. If there is luck the body will not be incinerated in some drab Norwegian morgue. Make paperwork easy, talk to the Syrian refugees. Dip yours fingers in sulfuric acid just when the drowsiness from the vodka is electrifying your nerves. You will pass out in the cold, dark night of the winter.

Why are you on this journey? Physical desires can be within reach but what about when searching for something that is not there? Where to reach out to if there is only stale air from previous attempts? Questions ask questions in infinity. There is peace in the silence of the mind. A nameless alcoholic that has be duly disposed off. This is the end of an animate story. Do not be afraid, shut your door behind you with no afterthought. Remember, there is no light in the polar shadows.

The tape recorder creaks with the stuck cassette:

Now the seasons flick on by
like seconds on this ship.
An' I take another pull
from the flask that's at my hip. The mighta-beens and the never-weres can drive a man insane. So-I think I'll stay out in the Void 'cause Benson's not the same.

#film #philosophy

Music is essential from scene setting, it enhances and adds a solid landscape for mundane things like a person walking to the profound matters of the heart. Great music when merged with a good visual story can alter the non-film reality because music is more subconscious than the way we perceive narrated information.

Living through the day is a narrative experience, one that involves conversations, transience and the Hero journey. We walk into stories and continue existing ones. It is in this perspective that music comes in, it creates a richer alternation to the one that already is. It changes the view without changing the context, so that the execution of the story is not botched.

It is in this indelible context that music can change how we look at life itself. Having periods of time attributable to a certain shape and form of music. It needn't come from speakers alone, the birds, the sound of tires, rustling wind and jackhammers all lend the same aesthetic quality as well tuned studio production.

Music, when viewed through film also juxtaposes multiple asymmetric visions into one – it's almost invariable to not imagine the opening scene of Apocalypse Now when I see a ceiling fan while while lazing on a hot Indian summer afternoon, the images of cinematic violence flash along with Francis Ford Coppola's visions of Vietnam – a feat unified by the dreamy mix of The End by the Doors. I also associated this montage with my dreams of Varanasi, where I sat by the Ganges and saw the sunrise after wandering in the nights with the outcasts and the holy drunks. It was the same intro piece of music that I first heard in a friend's apartment in Bangalore, while going through a rather hard breakup. The song now has travelled with me for years, along the way accumulating film and real history. In my mind's eye it has its own progression – a movie of its own. When I watched Apocalypse Now in a Parisian kino last year, the opening had the same profound effect as the first time I watched on my computer a decade ago.

In this sense, music helps build a dense world of references where the images inspire further moments but are still connected by the same, unchanged beat. The experience of seeing the opening of Apocalypse Now has my own progression as a person etched onto it, effecting the rest of the film and what happens when I come out from the kino. A world where city scapes are painted by Vangelis' score from the Bladerunner and the Metro tunnels are haunted by Thomas Bangalter's Irreversible urban techno trauma.

Music in film helps forming a complex image through an additional layer of stimulus that also works the other way – images have their own musical composition hidden in the folds of their action. This meshing between both the senses bridges the border less world between film and reality, making the world an extension of one's mind's eye. As long as there is music and there is a will to dream, we are all making movies beat by beat and frame by frame.

#film #music

a song connected to an image(s) a person drained of capacity looking up a pedestal

A poet vs the other: the other is a toxic slurry of color while the poet is just a receptacle

calm choke hold, a strong hand. there's no-one to breathe, the air-con's turned off for both profit and conservation

the show’s over and it smells of popcorn that couldn’t go anywhere, droppings of cheap entertainment

#kino #cinema

“I'm Not Sure Anybody Even Knows What It Is”; “You Can Call It A Germ, You Can Call It A Flu”

Parasite kinocow

I watched the movie thrice, streaming it twice because I thought it wouldn't be the breakout hit it would be. Bong Joon-ho is a perennial favorite, from the first time I watched Memories of Murder thanks to Tarantino. I went into the kino confident of scribbling a few intelligent views but all my aspirations were shot down within the first minutes. I went in to be immersed in a cinematic experience and I found myself drowned by force instead. Drowned with the same force as the subterranean house of the Kims is flooded with sewage and along with it all their aspirations of climbing up the economic ladder. Climbing: which the poor Kim family does up and down the Korean metropolis, into basements, sub-basements and when they connive and trick, into the manicured lawn of the rich Park family.

By the main entrance of the apartment building I grew up in India is a small room the size of a single bed. It has no windows and from what I assume, no drainage. I never stepped foot inside that room though I lived there for over ten years. It was the watchman's house — in which four people lived, a family mirroring my own. When we first moved in there I remember becoming friends with the watchman's son, he introduced me to his friends, and over one summer we played cricket every evening. It made my eleven-year-old self-confident in the new surroundings. We both looked at each other as equals but slowly the drift happened, in part engineered by both our parents.

“Don't hang around with the wrong sorts” was a common diktat in my house. This was also common in other households whose children I hung out with. The Marxian quote of birds of the same class flocking together was something I grew up with, it never occurred to me as something wrong or out of place. That is how things are, were and have been. The watchman's son was uncouth and manner less, he had no education, and he hung out with the wrong sorts. He had no innocence while at the same age I was brimming with it. He had no chances and no chance to have those chances, while I was given many even with repeated failures. His life was a non-starter from the beginning.

Their room has no sunlight and if there is a strong rain there is a possibility that the room gets flooded with sewage water. The beds for the family spill over into the parking lot of the apartment complex, where there is no inkling of privacy, ever. Whenever I used to come from my late night sojourns, I used to tiptoe around these beds as if I were a thief. Here I was, hoping I wouldn't wake the watchman up. The lines were blurred, and we didn't know who was the watchman anymore. Was it the wife or the daughter or the random people who used to hang out at their place? The people in the apartment started complaining about the strangers loitering by the entrance, how dare they destroy the calm of the beautiful apartment they own? From the POV of the flat owners, the watchman couldn’t have a social circle, he had to be chained to servitude.

This small room by the entrance isn't an anomaly, but by design. It was the call of the city for the villagers whose farms have dried up and access to education and health was non-existent. It was the promise that the city would look after them but in the gentle irony that followed, it is they who look after the city. The work itself is precarious, there are no contracts and no promises, there might be kicked out at any moment — just a step away from homelessness at any point. “They” are the dirty ones, the low castes, the poor and the people who have to sit on the floor and shouldn't eat from our plates. “They” shouldn't have the same rules and privileges than us, it is a social contract that's driven by need and is accepted by both parties without discussion.

Mr. Park is not so far away when he notices Mr. Kim's smell on the couch in a pivotal scene in the film. The Kim family might look and act like they come from an appropriate status to serve the Parks, but they cannot hide the smell of their poverty. They can make fake certificates and conjure testimonials for things that never were, but the smell of richness that is beyond them and one they cannot even notice. Watch Parasite if you haven’t already. It’s a story spanning multiple generations in two families that are separated by the invisible hand of money and power. A story of masters and servants, where the masters don’t assert and the servants have illusory freedom. A story that reflects the wishful thinking behind our ignorance of income inequality and our myopia beyond our social bubbles. Parasite made me think of the family living under ours for almost two decades now and all the other families that I haven’t seen. Sometimes I go to the movies to sleep and on rare occasions I go to the cinemas to wake up.

#review

or Thelma & Clyde learn about intersectionality

Yo, I was going to this movie thinking it was a rap comedy or something. I remember watching the trailer a few months ago but I didn't retain much of the information but I wanted this movie to be a comedy. The posters were also misleading, making it look like a cool-ass movie about these really hip people, but no. I see a group of women come from the previous screening and start crying after they plop themselves out in the sofa next to my table. I didn't really get their agony in German but it was something to do with the movie and this experience only raised my cortisol levels during my viewing.

Daniel Kaluuya repeats his Get Out act (or is his acting range limited?) with aimless staring and insecurity his major character traits. Jodie-Turner Smith is a revelation in her role, I went from hating her to liking and falling in love with her character in a matter of half-an-hour, which is both a feat of the writing and the acting. The characters are all relevant and feel real though some minor logical frustrations can be attributed to the dysfunctional trigger-happy American police system. Some other logical frustrations however can only be attributed to the stupidity of the characters though the writing is sympathetic to the viewer's intelligence, so they can be pushed under the rug.

There are intermittent scenes of comic beauty that liven up the proceedings and a delicious sex scene between the two leads which sadly is wasted because the movie wants the characters to be more poetic than they are. I understand the temptation, it is also is about race insecurity in the US but these characters were anything but. If the myth-making was to be the focal point of the story then some development in that direction would've been welcome though that part is left for the fade-to-black pause afforded to the audience.

The women from the previous screening cried for a moment, and then they left after having brief goodbyes and cracking jokes on their way out. If the net emotional effect of the movie can be boiled down to around five minutes — why be so preachy about it? Leaving the broader strokes the story aims for and focusing only on the main characters leads to a better viewing experience. I for most part was hoping that the characters would have a happy ending, having an old friend for dinner, perhaps with some Chianti and fava beans on a distant Cuban beach. In my version they still are, shot with the same skill as the rest of the film, listening to rap music and having some steamy sex.

That is the real power to the Queen and the Slim.

#review #American #cinema #berlin

... or Odenwaldschule on optical cocaine

Sex Education

Sex Education Season 2 is here, released on the 17th of January — a Friday, to suit your binge-watching needs. All eight hours of your time expended for the pure pleasure of see beautiful people worry about their sex lives and other dramatic tropes. Everything is perfect: the screenwriting is in top form, the characters are all well etched for a nominal viewing, the cinematography lulls you into thinking the show is better than what it is but the greatest achievement of it all is that Netflix hides in the background without once making its presence too imposing on the screen.

I don't pay for a Netflix subscription, my partner does along with four other people for a sum of €3 a month. That's a paltry sum for enticing me to binge-watch for hours, the economics don't add up in the end. So for the quantity of content I get for the price point, I must be fed absolute visual junk to while my time away before the start of another day as a productive member of the society.

This is my general gripe with almost all of Netflix's shows these days, they have an interesting hook and after a few episodes they plunge into private label factory produce with stock characters, story arcs and music choices. The writing usually is top-notch, following all the rules of an efficient drama but this perfection in everything lends a sterile viewing environment where the sense are numbed for the lack of any challenge.

Sex Education has an interesting premise but when viewed away from the binge-watching euphoria, it is nothing but shallow. It feels like a fictional version of the Odenwaldschule, where everyone sleeps with everyone else and no real studying seems to happen at any given point. Everything is focused around sex for the students, teachers, the headmaster and even the plumbers and shopkeepers in this fictional village. There is no sport, no classes and no other aspect of teenage life that demands attention, the most popular things to do seem to be a visiting a Sexual Councillor, either real or fake.

The sappy character arcs can be seen episodes away, giving enough time for one to cook, to take a nap or check the occasional Reddit post. The show doesn't demand any serious attention as it's not made to start a conversation but rather to serve as a primer for an awkward small talk incubator at a work lunch or an excuse to have that Netflix account running for one more month. Sex Education is all those sappy Saas-Bahu soaps but with a greater budget. The idea is just the same, to be hypnotized for a little while and go about the day without thinking much. While I'm unconsciously entertained, I am not going to sign-up for Netflix anytime soon.

If you're looking for something memorable and consuming only a fraction of your time, I recommend Napoleon Dynamite from which this show invariably draws a lot from. But if you just want to look at pretty people having a cornucopia of frivolous sex problems, then enter the black box and get some subliminal Coke advertising in the process.

#SexEducation #review #Netflix

A peek into a benevolent China

A few months ago I was at the Musée d'Orsay in Paris I saw Yan Pei-Ming's “A Burial in Shanghai” whose huge, stark canvases of black and white had an unconscious impact on me. I remember sitting before one of the canvases, exhausted from walking all over the museum and just trying to take in the scale and contents of the paintings. An old woman on a hospital bed, a burial against the Shanghainese skyline and a waterfall or something hazy to that effect. Little did I know that I would be witnessing a movie version of these paintings with the similar themes of death, development and a sense of loss towards ones own country in a kino in Berlin.

I was already 20 minutes behind the official showtime, and so I was running to the kino. The first twenty minutes are devoted to advertisements but that can wary on the popularity of the movie and in Berlin it is a hit or a miss. Movies one thinks can be empty are full and vice-versa and I didn't want to take a chance with this one. This season has been one with very dark movies and I needed something to break the monotony and The Farewell seemed to offer just that.

The woman behind the counter told me that the movie was already started two minutes ago and that the heater wasn't working. In moments of pressure my German becomes a leaky toilet and I was throwing my verbs all over when an older woman came from behind a curtain warning me that I had to understand two of the languages from English, Mandarin and German to understand the movie. I like these ushers who have this concern towards customers but it is a sad question really, it means that either the usher or the regular movie goers do not get the point of watching a movie – the images are right there in front of you and what is better than a foreign language to put things together and narrate your own story to it? Or that the ushers do not dream of watching movies all day – I would assume that it is a low pay job but why not? The woman also warned me that the heating was broken so the temperatures inside were less than 15 degrees. I didn't care, I was there for watching a movie and not being toasty like a biscuit. All that complaining perhaps had an effect on the crowd inside, there were hardly ten people in the cinema. I wonder how many more how walked in with intent and out without making a purchase.

sometimes a bit too much style

The movie itself wasn't extraordinary. It gives a peek inside China and deals with the topic of immigration and the concept of home and family which can seem exotic to Western families that don't have the same experience of moving far away from their birth homes with no promise of coming back. The story seemed normal from my Indian lens: the growing change in the society from the within, the breaking of traditional familial bonds, the romance with all things American, the extreme rejection of the idea of death.. it shows that the countries are much alike than we believe to be. This can be a cause for concern as the authoritarian angle the Chinese pursue is the current Indian government's wet dream and throughout the movie it reminded me that the distance between these two cultures is smaller than I thought, no matter what the appearances might reflect.

Yan Pei-Ming's paintings left more for one to chew on and remember. I can still remember the feeling of sitting in the exhibit room and wondering at the pixels that shook before me like ambient white noise. The Farewell however is less personal because it tries to please itself a bit too much. Sitting between both these works, I wonder if my place in the world is the same as the two artists – far away from a place once I called home, with dead family members and a feeling of self one cannot really place anywhere.

#review #Chinese

Ferris Bueller's Completely Off

Movie posters make or break a film. Like book covers, potato chip wrappers, clothes, light bulbs, underwear, supermarket branding.. you get the point. Systemsprenger's posters were around me for much of the last months and never did I once have the motivation to even remotely check what the movie was about. It looked juvenile (literally), lazy and pink – enough to tell me that it is about a young girl who is crazy.

Crazy she is, with all the shaky cameras running behind her for half the movie. Gimbals. The movie needed gimbals and better shot selection. Or perhaps some animation and an eye for detail. Instead it follows the Berliner style of impromptu kitsch, sometimes a bit too much. Being unpolished, overexposed with grungy music super-imposed does make the movie look raw but so do vegetables before they are cooked.

The movie had its moment in the fact that it made me empathize with my social worker friends. It made me think of the days after their night shifts and how sunken and harrowed they looked. I wanted to tell them that I experienced the same in the kino, which necessarily is not a good reason to relate with. The child actress was insufferable, she screams and she screams and she screams. Somehow none of the adults in the movie seem to be able to take a stance, not for a moment was this world feeling real. It looked like a construct because that is how it was written.

Another glitch is the lack of a budget for some medium level graphics which are quickly exchanged for random camera movements and quick cuts. That is what is supposed to make for style in this film, you can call pricking your eyes with a needle if you wish to. This movie is the most disturbing movie I watched this year after Climax. What makes Climax special is the inventiveness of its director who immerses you into his worldview and makes it plausible that such situations exist. Systemsprenger is more a fungal piece of bread developing all kinds of colors on its surface and you decide to eat it anyway because it is Monday and you have to get to work. Is that disturbing? Yes. Is that enriching? Perhaps for someone with bulimia.

I could only wish for the movie to end at multiple intersections throughout the film. There were at least four different story trajectories that could have made the experience tighter but the director, Nora Fingscheidt, goes for the maximum scream minimum impact which is definitely not a sensual argument. Once the credits started rolling I had to run outside to get some breath, it was a weekday and unlike the traumatized lead in the film I had things to do and had to do them well. Not all of us can run from our problems but I would recommend running away from this movie for sure.

#GermanCinema #review

is trumped by a rainy day in Berlin.

I got down at the Berlin Zoo Station and walked underneath the railway bridge. There was a slight winter drizzle and a gust of cold wind, mixed with the stale smell of puddle vapour and automobile exhaust. There were a few sketchy people standing by the wall next to the Apotheke, one of them was smoking a cigarette and looked bony and pale in a methamphetamine sense of way. A few feet away was this girl, not much older than her mid-teens , sitting on an olive green sleeping bag, cheeks still flush red with baby fat and the eyes had an innocence alien for the underpass.

Two men were talking to her, with their backs to the street, dressed in black with short cropped hair and standing in an authoritative stance. The girl looked like she was answering their questions and she looked clean to be on the streets. I looked down at the men's shoes, the old trick provided by Roald Dahl's 12 y.o. heroine in 'The Umbrella Man'. They were gaudy adidas' nothing the sort the law would be wearing around but pure trash material. I knew that was trouble but I was getting late to catch a screening at the kino.

A rainy day in New York. The theater was empty and the bunch of noisy teenagers who stood behind me in the line were sitting in the row behind me. The audience was mostly young except for the middle-aged man who held four doors open for me, twice at the kino and twice in the bathroom. I did not see his face but I just nodded as I walked past. The movie was already four minutes in by the time I sat down and it was right in the middle of the scene where a novice director wants Gatsby (Timothée Chalamet) to do an impromptu scene in his movie. The light seemed off and the setting seemed fake. Gatsby looked like he needed some water splashed in his face to wake up from his wet dream two days past. Enter Shannon (Selena Gomez) with whom he has to act in the scene. It is a typical Woody Allen romantic moment with neurotic male characters and a lot of mumble give and take. The movie never really picked up from that point, it all seemed like one huge circlejerk of rich fetishism and fake people, I couldn't care less for any of the characters, they just came and left without humour or intent. The staging was shoddy and it looked like the work of someone who has resigned, the equivalent would be the later year works of Ram Gopal Varma or Paul Schraeder, though Woody Allen has his sparks and sometimes often.

There were a few off laughs which the audience was kind enough to lap up, but most the followings were just endured through silence. The movie ended like it did a few dozen times before in Woody Allen's movies and every other performance except for Cherry Jones' as Gatsby's mother was artificial to the point that a cake of make-up could have done a better job.

I walked out of the kino and saw an S-Bahn pass by the wonderfully lit BNP Paribas building. The drizzle still persisted and I walked the same route back and this time the spot where the young girl was sitting before was empty, except for a woman lifting her small, fluffy dog before she ran down to the Underground station. I felt sad and all I could wish for is for that girl to have a safe, warm night in the city but something told me that it was not going to be the case.

If you crave for a movie, a superior alternative would be A Coffee In Berlin with more romanticism and the need to express. Being Woody Allen as a brand comfort I guess and that could give a certain legitimacy for laziness. Any rainy day in Berlin is better than a rainy day in New York, save the 10€ and buy yourself a döner and look around for the drama instead.

#review #Berlin #WoodyAllen

ok boomer!

Oh look, two brawny American good ol' boys from the 60s, full of muscle and grease fighting out like the good ol' times in the perfectly manicured lawns of those beautiful times in suburban America. Look at them, as brothers, fighting, hunk against hunk and in the moment of truce the perfectly dressed wife brings in two bottles of cold, sweaty Coke. Those were the times where everything was pure, cars were still running on gasoline and grit, children looked up to their fathers, employees still hung around with their abusive employers. It was a time of no malice and ofcourse, life played out as a Coke commercial.

Two handsome and capable lead actors, race cars, exposition, a template of a story and modern technology. This is what the movie is about. Plus a lot of advertising no-one asked for. Christian Bale did a Christian Bale doing a Christian Bale. I loved him, sometimes way too much. It is great to see an actor fill a screen and then overflow through its edges, flooding through the auditorium and floating me up. I was in the first row and I just managed to not drown in the performance. Matt Damon came close, but just so.

I was giving up on the movie whenever Ken Miles' (Bale) family came up on screen to add some non-existent drama. Caitriona Balfe as Mollie Miles had a groanworthy introduction of which as little said is better. All the padding had an amazing pay-off in the final race sequences that seemed to go on for 24-hours, I was wondering when the movie was going to end while eating my fourth chewing gum for the evening, any longer I would have had less teeth to grind and no fear of dentists.

I wonder, why there was no promotion for Marlboro or any mention of cigarettes? I guess it is easier to sell Coke and tyres than to sell cigarettes these days. These sugar daddies sure know how to roll in the dirt and make it look appealing, Ford vs. Ferrari is full of scenes that come out once in a while to surprise you and then the movie goes into an exposition overdrive and then some more.

Going beyond the obvious cliches, it was enjoyable for the race scenes which made up for all the shortcomings and the little surprise in the end I did not see coming. It is a movie that is more about the actors than anything else, a set piece, a star vehicle and sometimes what felt like one long advertisement. IC cars might not be around for too long and the mourning process has already begun. Bring back the good ol' times with thunky machines and muscled men but please, stick a cigarette in one for the next time or some real coke.

#Hollywood #FordvsFerrari #Review

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