"When a blue spirit breathes life into the puppet, Geppetto is initially terrified... But the pair soon settle down, with Pinocchio... helping Geppetto repair the huge crucified Christ..."

"... that hangs like a tortured marionette in the church where congregants shriek about demonic puppets. 'Everybody likes him,' says Pinocchio, pointing up at what looks like a prop from Ken Russell’s The Devils (1971). 'He’s made of wood too. Why do they like him and not me?' This is just one of many profoundly philosophical questions... that Del Toro’s Pinocchio is not afraid to raise. While previous film adaptations... have prioritised a populist litany of instructional morals (honour your father, do not tell lies, do not be lazy), Del Toro’s version celebrates its antihero’s agent-of-chaos nature.... "

Writes Mark Kermode, in "Guillermo del Toro’s Pinocchio review – a superbly strange stop-motion animation" (The Guardian).

 

The heads of Drudge have got me wondering — which one is the real boy?

Note the headless angel, the creepy succession of men, and — topping it all off — the little puppet boy. Beyond heads — hands: I like the mirrored hand gestures, the angel and Joe Biden and then Tom Cotton and Pinocchio. All the human entities frown. We can't know the expression on the angel statues head and Pinocchio is slack-jawed and woozy. 

Anyway, what's up with Disney sending the live-action remake of "Pinocchio" straight to video? It was directed by Robert Zemeckis and stars Tom Hanks. That's conspicuously intended to be huge. It must stink like a bad cigar.

ADDED: I see that there is a second live-action version of Pinocchio coming out this year.

"I'm a very special human being. Noble. And splendid."

Says Burt Lancaster to Joan Rivers in "The Swimmer."



The movie came out 50 years ago — in May 1968. I saw it at the time, when I was 17 and interested in figuring out what the adults viewed as high-class film art.

And I DVR'd it when I saw that it was on Turner Classic Movies this week, and Meade and I ended up watching it straight through last night.

We laughed at it a lot — the Marvin Hamlisch music, the nature photography, the endless observation of the torso of Lancaster, the taking seriously of a type of man no one today takes seriously — but we've been talking about it seriously for a long time this morning, and I took the trouble to read the 1964 John Cheever story and a contemporaneous Roger Ebert review:

As "the swimmer" has a drink with his friends, it occurs to him that a string of other backyard pools reaches all the way across the valley to his own home. Why not swim every one -- swim all the way home, as it were?....

The movement of the film is from morning to dusk, from sunshine to rain, from youth to age and from fantasy to truth. It would also appear that the swimmer's experiences are not meant to represent a single day, but a man's life.

What we really have here, then, is a sophisticated retelling of the oldest literary form of all: the epic. A hero sets off on a journey. He has many strange adventures along the way, during which he learns the tragic nature of life. At last he arrives at his goal, older and wiser and with many a tale to tell. The journey Cheever's swimmer makes has been made before in other times and lands by Ulysses, Don Quixote, Huckleberry Finn and Augie March.

Joan Rivers has only a very small part, and this was her first acting role. She wrote in her autobiography:

"Frank [the director, Frank Perry] wanted a happy girl who then got hurt. Lancaster was going to be Mr. Wonderful who came up against a mean bitch, and was right not to go off with her. Trying to please both men, I was going back and forth between line readings, and nothing made sense."

That's quoted in Wikipedia, which also says:

After the film's restoration and re-release by Grindhouse Releasing in 2014, Brian Orndorf of Blu-ray.com gave the Blu-ray release five stars, commenting that "It's a strange picture, but engrossingly so, taking the viewer on a journey of self-delusion and nostalgia that gradually exposes a richly tortured main character as he attempts to immerse himself in a life that's no longer available to him", commenting that Lancaster gives a "deeply felt, gut-rot performance ... and communicates every emotional beat with perfection". Commenting on the same release, Ain't It Cool News reviewer Harry Knowles commented "This is also Burt Lancaster's journey to ... The Twilight Zone ... it is friggin brilliant! ... It is fascinating! Spectacular film!”

The aggregator site Rotten Tomatoes gives the film an approval rating of 100%, based on 22 critic reviews.

Amazing really, because it seems just as likely that everyone could say it's a ludicrous, terrible mess. Where's the line between reality and fantasy? It's never revealed. You'll have to puzzle over it, and reading the original story won't hand you the answer.

I am still working on the theory that "the swimmer" was a sperm cell (or salmon swimming upstream to mate). Don't you think a sperm cell — if it could think — would think, "I'm a very special human being. Noble. And splendid"?

Back in the 60s, it was understood that literary fiction revealed the complexities of the mind of wealthy suburban males. We the theater audience spent 2 hours gazing at the near-naked and naked body of a 54-year-old man. Nowadays, Harvey Weinstein/Louis C.K. begs an audience of one to please look at him naked, and the theater audience is captivated by a swimmer who isn't a very special human being. He's not a human being at all.



Noble and splendid!

The Oscars stage looked like a geode (or maybe a vagina dentata).

Here's an amethyst geode:



Here's the set:



I said "geode" in my post last night, and now I'm reading about the set in Architectural Digest:

The proscenium... "feels a little bit like a geode, or a kind of sculpture made out of crushed glass,” [designer Derek McLane] says. When producers Mike De Luca and Jennifer Todd asked the designer to do the show again this year, the proscenium was the first design he conceived. The end result is this dazzling faceted piece decorated with a staggering 45 million Swarovski crystals. (For comparison, last year’s proscenium only had 27,120 crystals.) He then expanded upon the crystalline structure for the other pieces on the stage you see here, flattening them into more abstracted, two-dimensional forms that have a bit of an Art Deco flair to them.

I'm glad to see the set's designer intended what I saw, a geode. I don't know if he also had in mind my alternative interpretation: vagina dentata.

Vagina dentata (Latin for toothed vagina) describes a folk tale in which a woman's vagina is said to contain teeth, with the associated implication that sexual intercourse might result in injury, emasculation, or castration for the man involved. Such folk stories are frequently told as cautionary tales warning of the dangers of unknown women and to discourage rape. Erich Neumann relays one such myth in which "a fish inhabits the vagina of the Terrible Mother...".

A fish! We heard all about that fish-in-the-vagina character last night. The creature won best picture! "How Weird, A Movie About Fish Sex Became Awards Season’s Consensus Vote" (HuffPo). It beat out "Get Out" in which white people got inside the head of black people. A fish gets into a woman's vagina:

[A] mute woman (Sally Hawkins) fucks a godly fish-man (Doug Jones), and we swoon with the same emotional heft once devoted to “Titanic,” “West Side Story” and “Casablanca” ― all (deserving) Best Picture winners of yore. What a seemingly repulsive concept, brought to life in the dreamiest of fairytales and packaged for uncynical audiences willing to embrace the lore.

Well, our psyche is complicated and jumbled and Hollywood trades in dreams. Me, I have dreams where I shout "Get out!" and wake up my poor non-piscine husband. But glam it up, attach 45 million Swarovski crystals and we'll be fucking fish in our dreams.

The Oscars host, Jimmy Kimmel made a joke:

The most nominated movie tonight, a film that’s up for 13 Oscars, The Shape of Water written and directed by Guillermo Del Toro, a wonderful man. Congratulations I’m very happy for Guillermo. You made a beautiful movie and thanks to Guillermo we will always remember this year as the year men screwed up so badly, women started dating fish.

They used to say "A woman needs a man like a fish needs a bicycle," now a woman doesn't need a man but she needs a fish. A fish doesn't need a bicycle, but does a fish need a woman? I assume that in the movie the fish does need the woman. I haven't seen it. Does she ask for consent? She's mute! But fish don't talk anyway. It's all in the gestures, I guess. Start reaching, groping, and observe. Does she/he just let you do it?

That reminds me of how the over-the-top glitziness of the stage — especially the changing interiors within the geode/vagina — made me think of the strivingly posh interiors within the erections of Donald Trump.



Ah, dreams! Who can penetrate the depths of our dreams? Guillermo Del Toro (the bull)? Little Barron on his lion (big pussy)? Donald making the vagina symbol with his hands in front of his crotch while Melania, standing next to him, extends a long, phallic leg?

And that reminds me of Jimmy's most notable joke/"joke" last night:

Oscar is the most beloved and respected man in Hollywood and there’s a very good reason why. Look at him. Keeps his hands where you can see them. Never says a rude word, and most importantly no penis at all. He is literally a statue of limitations. And that’s the kind of men we need more of in this town.

We — who's we? — need more of the kind of men with no penis at all? I read that to mean: Ladies, that's not really what you want, is it? Don't you think you need to recalibrate your demands? And, indeed, the Oscar statuette has long been regarded as exceedingly phallic. Here's a woman named Bidisha bitching about it in the Guardian 3 years ago (before we got the gilded white man in the White House):

The Oscar statuette is a gilded white man holding a sword – basically, a phallus holding a phallus. 

"Logic is dull."

A quote from Alfred Hitchcock, which I heard last night, as I watched the documentary "Hitchcock/Truffaut." I said the quote out loud as soon as I heard it (at home, though if I'd been in a theater, I might have whispered it to Meade).

I remembered the quote as I sat down this morning with my coffee and toast and woke up my computer to see: "One Star: ‘The Shape of Water’ Is a Loopy, Lunkheaded Load of Drivel." That's one of the tabs I'd opened as I read that excellent NYT article — blogged in the early evening — "Rex Reed Bangs a Gong on the Mediocrity of Modern Life."

I'd expected to enjoy Reed's "bang[ing] a gong" on "The Shape of Water." You need to understand that the NYT "Bangs a Gong" evokes "The Gong Show," the 1970s parody of a talent show, where the celebrity judges would bang a gong when a performer was so bad they wanted it to stop. Rex Reed — we learn in the article — was sometimes one of the celebrijudges. The NYT is not referring to the phenomenal, timeless 1970s recording "Bang a Gong (Get It On)" by T. Rex. Whatever "bang a gong" means to T. Rex — the other Rex — it is emphatically not negative. It's great sex, whether the "gong" is specifically the cervix or not.

YouTube seems to know the Urban Dictionary definition, since the next song it plays is "How Deep Is Your Love."

Speaking of deep love, the creature in "The Shape of Water" is dragged up from the deep and somehow enclosed in a water chamber where he can be encountered and fallen in love with by a woman who cleans urinals. We're invited to plunge into that nonsense. I'd expected to feel comical contempt along with Rex Reed. I'd got this far...

Knowing the unfortunate fish man faces extinction at the hands of the Kremlin, Eliza stages a rescue to the sound track of Carmen Miranda singing “Chica Chica Boom Chic” and with the help of a sympathetic co-worker (Octavia Spencer), smuggles the human red snapper out of the underground garage while a male military marching band plays “Shenandoah.” Hiding him in her apartment above a movie theatre that shows double-feature revivals of nothing but 20th Century-Fox movies, Eliza teaches the monster to eat with a knife and fork while she herself learns to dance around the dining room table singing “You’ll Never Know” from Hello, Frisco, Hello.

I thought, "Logic is dull."

From the Hitchcock interview:

To insist that a storyteller stick to the facts is just as ridiculous as to demand of a representative painter that he show objects accurately. What’s the ultimate in representative painting? Color photography. Don’t you agree? There’s quite a difference, you see, between the creation of a film and the making of a documentary. In the documentary the basic material has been created by God, whereas in the fiction film the director is the god; he must create life. And in the process of that creation, there are lots of feelings, forms of expression, and viewpoints that have to be juxtaposed. We should have total freedom to do as we like, just so long as it’s not dull. A critic who talks to me about plausibility is a dull fellow.

We're not dull enough to ask whether the "Bang a Gong" girlfriend was really "built like a car" and had "a hubcap diamond star halo." Thus, Hitchcock has convinced me to see "The Shape of Water."