La convergence des médias

...n'a rien à voir avec mon long silence.

C'est plutôt la somme de mes activités qui s'est précipitée dans un long corridor qui rapetissait de plus en plus, de sorte que mes activités ont dû se serrer les coudes pour le traverser en entier, et se sont retrouvées fusionnées en bout de parcours.

Je ne fais plus de pige, je concentre mes énergies dans un seul magazine (vous savez lequel si vous êtes encore ici), et je vivote tranquilement. De retour dans le Centre-Sud pour une période indéterminée.

J'ai un plan, j'ai des croquis, j'ai des maquettes imaginaires d'aventures fantasmées.

Il ne reste plus qu'à tout coucher sur cathode.

Very Loud, Thank You

Moving like a very fast train, my life flashes by like a lightning bolt. Straight through my heart. Without passing GO and cashing in a paycheck. Summer's over but it's still sticky as hell outside. Every morning I do my cardio, biking to work as fast as I can and getting here all sweaty. Montreal's notorious bad drivers do nothing to keep my stress level down. I'm extremely vulnerable on the road. A sculpture of flesh, bones and nerves that could be shattered any minute by steel and fiber. Asphalt, cement and imprevisibility are my worst ennemies. My body is a prison, and a weak one at that.



During the past few weeks I have done many things. I have watched horror movies. I have seen Nacho Cerda's THE ABANDONNED, a movie that has been written by montrealer Karim Hussain and that takes place in the middle of a never-ending Russian forest. I've also seen DISTURBIA, a teen take on Hitchcock's REAR WINDOW, and I am supposed to write a review for CONTAMINATION. I don't know what's happening to me, though; I feel as if writing about movies is now something useless. The most important gesture in cinema is to WATCH / SEE a movie, not endlessly discourse about it for the improbable benefit of people who have yet to see it. The experience is personal, and the interpretation shouldn't be shared, or should only be with people you care about. Being a critic is somewhat of a puzzle - you make a living by emitting an opinion on someone else's work, on someone else's vision and sweat.



I have also seen VACANCY, a neat little flick about a snuff producin' hotel manager and the people he traps. While it didn't have the depth of a movie like Alejandro Amenabar's THESIS, it didn't sink as low as Joel Schumacher's 8 MM. The faceless men invading hotel rooms and killing its occupants in front of multiple hidden cameras is a cultural psychosis, somewhat of a modern legend, but it was pulled off expertly, and kept me at the edge of my seat.



The same can be said about Rob Zombie's remake of John Carpenter's HALLOWEEN, a flick I saw on Monday night in a nearly deserted Scotia Bank Theater. Miss Bijoux & me sat in the dark with four other persons, in a gigantic room, and enjoyed Zombie's touch applied to an old classic. Interestingly enough, the movie featured Sid Haigh and Udo Kier, and I never saw them pass by. Macolm McDowell's Dr. Loomis is a credible one, almost making us forget Donald Pleasance's original performance. Michael Mayers is one big motherfucker, too. With the childhood sequences, one can better understand where he's coming from and why he's so troubled. Having a mom as delicious as Sherry Moon Zombie would have made me more of a sex maniac than a homicidal loonie, but what the hell. I left the theater puzzled by the few critics who had given the movie a bad review.

*

I have a confession to make : I've started watching the SOPRANOS a few months ago and I'm completely obsessed. I'm currently watching the end of the first part of the sixth season, and I'm traumatized by the thought of having to wait until the end of October before the final season gets released on home DVD. I'm afraid I won't make it. I caught a mean-ass virus a few weeks ago, that kept me in the bed from Wednesday night to Sunday morning, and in the middle of piercing headaches and a delirious, never-ending fever, I dreamt about Tony Soprano. Constantly. But that might be due to the seven episodes marathon I watched before going to bed.

*

Last Saturday, while I was in Ottawa to help Miss Bijoux sell her craft at the Ladyfest, my good pal Jason Pelletier invited me to play at his new night at OZ Kafe. It's a lovely establishment located on Elgin St, not too far from Freehouse Lounge where I played last time I was in town. Oz is the owner, a friendly lady who concocts terrific cocktails. While mixing, I had a pear-flavoured cocktail, an Amaretto Sour, a Lychee Martini, a Jagermeister shot, a Mai Tai and a Manhattan. It all went down real well and contributed to the harmonious flow of my beats.



The following day, before heading back to Montreal, we had breakfast at Empire, on the Market. We walked the streets, in no particular hurry, enjoying the gorgeous weather. We headed back in town and arrived around 5, took back the rental car to its Stanley St. hideout, and ate delicious pastas at McGill College's Boccacino's. We wanted to catch the end of what would be our last Piknic of the year, with the Archipel DJs making a killing, but got out of the restaurant so late that we decided to head home.

I have so many things to do all week that I don't really give a fuck anymore. There's no void in my life I need to fill by going out all the time. I'll party when I feel like it, if there's something really special going on, if there's a guest I like and never heard live before... but not because I don't know what to do with my evenings. There are so many things I have yet to learn, so many books to read and movies to see... so many precious people in my life I barely see and spend time with because I'm so busy all the time.

Take a step back. Evaluate what counts the most. WHO counts the most. Then, do only that, with only those people. Life's too short to deal with all that phony crap and these idiotic morons anyway.



Don't look for me over this orgiastic week-end filled with promises : I'll be in Toronto, chillin' at the Clothing Show with self-obsessed fashionistas and short-memoired hipsters. I'll do my best to come back with the most troubling t-shirts and belt buckles I'll find. We'll listen to rebel country and soothing folk music in the car, and the road will be filled with stretches of forest, offering us their lively fall colours, and one last breath of fantasy before winter sets in and turns everything as white as despair.

Colère Ensoleillée

Plusieurs de mes collègues de travail me font part de leur fine analyse de mon comportement, de façon tout à fait intermitente. Et quelques-uns d'entre eux s'accordent pour dire que depuis mon retour de voyage, je suis beaucoup plus "zen". Une colère sourde envers la connerie humaine gronde toujours en moi, mais je l'extériorise beaucoup moins. Ma patience a atteint un nouveau plateau. Je ne sais pas si tout ça est authentique, mais c'est du nouveau pour moi. Car on a toujours vertement critiqué mes opinions arrêtées et mon peu de tolérance envers les faiblesses d'autrui. Sans être impitoyable, j'en attends beaucoup de mes confrères humains.

Et c'est tout à fait normal ! Je ne crois pas que la planète survivrait si on se fiait seulement à la masse de bovins apathiques constituée par "l'homme moyen". Sans jouer les professeurs insistants, je suis ébahi lorsque je retrouve des journaux ou divers papiers dans la poubelle de mes voisins de cubicule, et je ne me gêne pas pour leur faire savoir. Toute conversation portant sur une émission de télé-réalité m'irrite. Je ne veux pas gouverner les choix culturels de mes proches, mais je leur souhaite beaucoup de bien, et ça me fait donc un peu de peine de les voir se polluer eux-même l'esprit avec de telles fadaises.

Je me lève toujours de bonne humeur; c'est ma journée et les gens que j'y rencontre qui détruisent peu à peu mon optimisme. L'impossibilité de jouir de toute quiétude me dépasse - il y a toujours une voix qui retentit quelque part, toujours quelqu'un qui se trouve intéressant et qui raconte sa vie, ou qui éprouve un tel besoin d'attention qu'il interpelle tout ce qui bouge et qui ressemble vaguement à un être humain.

Je suis conscient, de façon douloureusement aïgue, que le temps file et que les accomplissements que je vise à atteindre sont dangereusement menacés par ces intrusions. Je ne sais pas à quel niveau ma concentration est affectée, ni à quel point ma créativité se trouve amochée par la moindre interruption, mais je me doute que le prix à payer pour côtoyer mes collègues est fort élevé. Bien entendu, je vis sur une planète qu'il me faut partager, mais ai-je au moins le droit de choisir avec qui ?

J'ai appris, au fil des ans, à évacuer ma colère à mesure qu'elle s'accumulait, pour éviter toute accumulation pouvant mener à une explosion. De toute façon, comment rester fâché devant une splendeur telle que le "Pacific Highway" que j'ai récemment emprunté en compagnie de Mr. Finances ?



Cette route, que nous avons décidé de prendre en revenant bredouilles d'une tentative de visite du Hearst Castle, serpente jusqu'à San Francisco sur deux voies effrayantes, à flanc de montagne, où les garde-fous sont rares. Sur notre droite, une paroi montagneuse impénétrable, et sur notre gauche un ravin menant droit dans les houleuses vagues du Pacifique qui s'écrasent sur les rochers. Ajoutez à tout cela le nouvel album de Swayzak, un coucher de soleil resplendissant et un souper de pizza gourmet à Big Sur, servi par une sosie de Nelly Furtado affublée d'obus 36D, et ça ressemble presque au bonheur.

The Return of Bruno

I know many weeks have passed, months even, since I last updated this blog. Let's not linger on that and concentrate on the present. I'm not lazy - just busy. I just came back from three weeks off in a row and I must say it's quite painful to be returning to work after all that happened. In the course of my multiple journeys, I forgot how idiotic and tenuous customer service can get, and how supremely annoying my co-workers could be. It might be the blandness of my workdays, but I feel like everyday is the same here, and the voices just keep on getting louder, making it impossible for me to concentrate on anything. My focus has been steadily destroyed by the calls I get at the most awkward moments, for example as soon as I put food in my mouth. The fact that I cannot decide not to answer has a lot to do with the numerous headaches I suffer from. A call comes in, and whatever the fuck I'm doing at that precise moment, I have to take it.



I might have been slow to react, culturally, to many things lately. That fact can be explained by another fine corporate reaction at my workplace. One month ago, before leaving for my three weeks holiday, a supervisor with nothing better to do came to my desk while I was on break and shuffled through my computer. He discovered that I had lots of unrelated website pages opened and that I was concentrating on anything BUT my work - which is so fuckin' true it hurts, considering the extremely low level of emotional implication I feel for my job. I was then prohibited to go online.

Going online, though, is pretty much the only reason I'm staying in this shit hole. The work is not involving, the customers are more often than not retarded, and the paycheck is pityful. I don't have any insurances even if I've been here for almost four years now (ouch) so the only explanation why I stayed here so long is that I was always able to work on my "side projects" while being paid to pretend working. But since that utopia is no longer, I have to say the envy of quitting is stronger every day.

But enough about work already - living it is no fun, so I can imagine how reading about it feels like.

*

Before narrating my trip in all its juicy details, something I've been meaning to do for a while, we have to talk about the third (yes, third !) remake of Don Siegel's INVASION OF THE BODY SNATCHERS, opening this week and starring Nicole Kidman and Daniel Craig. Any thoughts on why this story keeps on being remade ? Ferrara's version seemed quite fine, no ?

*

There has been something boiling in my veins since I came back from California. An interest in anything foreign. A true desire not to spend too many time in a city I already know too much. Whenever I hear about somebody going away for a while, jealousy arises. I wish it was me. I wish I had the balls to throw everything away and start anew somewhere else, or just become a traveling monkey that doesn't care about materialism.



The only problem is... I don't have an inch of an hippie soul. I'm all for peace and love - but you're never gonna see me in overalls, hitch-hiking towards BC.

I like my confort too much. Wish I could spend the next 100 days buried under an ocean of pillow, watching movies and reading. Ordering books and DVDs from Amazon.ca and not answering the phone. Stealing music from the internet and letting my inner autism take more and more space in my life. Sending hand-written letters to those that matter for me. Letting the superficiality of Montreal's nightlife slide on my back like rain.

I have decided to eliminate compromise from my life. If something doesn't look fun and / or doesn't pay well enough, I'm not doing it. I'm not doing any more favors to people I barely know just so they think I'm a nice guy. Why should I give a fuck ? Do they ? Nice people are notorious for being taken advantage of. That's my everyday burden. Being nice, wanting to please, hoping everybody will like me. What kind of weakness is that ? Wouldn't it be nice if everybody was like me ? Of course. But that's not gonna happen. because there will always be parasites, bloodsuckers finding a way to exploit your sweet spot.



When I was younger, I was on the lookout for weird albums. I knew some of my favourite actors were also musicians, and I seeked out their recordings. My girlfriend, in 1996, bought a very expensive imported CD of the collected "hits" of John Travolta. No kidding. It set her back about 30$, which represented way more than you might think for a 18 years old girl with no job. I also knew Bruce Willis had recorded a mythical pop-ish blues album, "The Return of Bruno". I never could put my hands on it, unfortunately. And now that the golden age of internet would normally allow me to find it in a few minutes and download it at absolutely no cost through a peer 2 peer program, the interest is gone. What's left of it is an impression, a vague and out of focus memory - that will never be corrected. My desire is gone, and has been replaced by another.

And so the wheel turns.

Exhaustion Ahead

I sometimes spend my days sleepwalking through life, not entirely awake. That happens mostly when I've had very little to no sleep at all, or what is commonly called in a few exclusive circles as the "no sleep 'til Brooklyn" phenomenon. With Mutek starting tonight and the ignition of 72 hours in a row without sleep set to begin tomorrow morning, I can already feel the pain. I'm no longer 20 years old, and will in fact be 30 in less than a year. But I must insist : I like to party very much, thank you.



Tomorrow, while most people will slowly prepare for their happy hour, or mentally spend all their pay check in expensive Italian ties bought at Carrefour Laval, I'll be writing several articles that have long been due. The deadlines are here, folks, and it's time to pay them bills. Knock knock, who's there ? "A deadline". I've never been good with these things, but since I began gettin' paid by the word, I magically respect every time frame my editors are giving me. There's been this safari movies article floating around my head, and that's about the only thing I haven't done and for which I'm REALLY late. My public apologies go out to Mike White, editor in chief of Cashiers du Cinemart, as well as to the magnificent chimpanzee appearing in both Michele Lupo's AFRICA EXPRESS and Duccio Tessari's SAFARI EXPRESS (both from 1976).

My assignments for Contamination are going well; I just put my hands on the DVDs of THE THIRST and Howard Avedis' very promising THEY'RE PLAYING WITH FIRE re-release, and I have to see CAPTIVITY pretty soon. I have interviewed Bender for the upcoming issue of Nightlife Magazine and have three other pieces to write.



Over the week-end, I'll be writin' and partyin'; on my schedule of artists to hear are, in chronological order, Magda & Richie Hawtin, Carl Craig, Mossa, Gamall, My My, Chic Miniature, Claude VonStroke, Audion, Miskate, Someone Else, Gui Boratto, Michael Mayer, Heartthrob, Jesse Somfay, and the Wighnomy Brothers. I might very well drop dead after this breath taking marathon, but one thing's for sure : it'll be pure ear candy !

So if you walk past me on Sunday at Piknic, don't be surprised if I'm all zombie-like and don't even look at you; my brain most probably will be at "off". I remember going to DiskHo's Matthew Dear party last year, on a Friday night, and leaving just to pop a On*Star and head over to Aria to hear Felix da Housecat. I didn't sleep all night or day, had a great meal at La Caretta on St-Zotique, and then went to a house party above Inbeat on St-Laurent on Saturday night to play a set at 2 AM, after drinking TONS of vodka / Guru. The police crashed the party at 3 but I couldn't be bothered; the guy owning the flat reduced the music's volume to a minimum, and I kept on playing like a madman. My first real night of sleep after that was on Monday night, after an orgy of sushis.

I ain't feeling like a million bucks right now and I could use a few days of rest, but I'm afraid that won't be possible. We'll just have to keep up with what we have and party like there's no tomorrow ! The recipe for that is to avoid sleeping, to make your week-end seem like an uninterrupted Friday night binge. Brilliant.

*

Since Bud Spencer, alias Carlo Pedersoli, is a likable guy, I quite like him. I believe there's enough misery in this world without seeing the need for people to be rude on top of it all. That's why I rather like people who are in a good mood, or "good guys". And girls. The use of the masculine form everywhere on this blog is, of course, for convenience & speed purposes only.



My love for Spencer, for Italian cinema at large - and for Enzo Girolami Castellari's work in particular - made me seek out an episode of the "Extralarge" series, these hard-to-find TV movies shot in Miami between 1991 and 1993. Thirteen were made, and the one I've seen is called EXTRALARGE : BLACK & WHITE. In them, Bud plays Jack "Extralarge" Costello, a Miami private eye pretty much ressembling any role he's ever played : not very fast, but big, and with a heart of gold. He has a latina neighbor, in his Art Deco building, who happens to be his girlfriend, and many friends in the Miami Police Department.



From then on, anything is possible. In BLACK & WHITE - which I strongly believe to be the pilot, or at least the first in the series - it starts with a kleptomaniac ("Wendy", played by knockout Lela Rochon) inviting herself to a senator's garden party, and posing as a maid to infiltrate the rooms and steal stuff. However, she ends up fleeing with something very precious to the senator, and he sends his men after her with one mission : to kill her and come back with the stolen goods. While running away from them, she stumbles upon Costello's office, and decides to seek out his help. Meanwhile, good old Jack's met Dumas (Phillip Michael Thomas, found jobless and aimlessly wandering the streets of Miami by the producers), a French cartoonist interested by his physique, and has tied him up in the bathroom. The "Black & White" of the title implies, of course, that they'll team up to help save the girl, and that all things will come to an end without too much bloodshed.



But keep in mind : it's an italian TV movie; people die, people cry, and most stay clothed. Bad guys and corrupt politicians are more than common in this shark-infested city, and we can feel a bit of Enzo's love for MIAMI VICE here and there. However, everything seems cheaper than in the hit Michael Mann-produced TV series, and the running time is undoubtedly longer. The cars aren't as slick, and the wardrobes neither. The theme song, surprisingly, is an entertaining hip house hit that's very pleasant to hear. Played over the opening credits featuring sea-doo daredevils in traditional Castellari slow-motion shots, it has a certain effect.

What's also a nice surprise here is that old Bud's own voice is used in the final sound track; no silly dubbing is to be heard anywhere, which probably means that the whole production was shot directly in english. Which is a funny phenomenon; with all the late 80's Corbucci-shot movies Spencer & Hill did in Miami, and this Extralarge franchise, lots of people are still surprised to learn nowadays that Carlo Pedersoli, the irresistible bearded fatso, is not an American.

Wolves, Magicians, and Coincidences

I first became aware of Hugh Jackman's existence when I brought my mom out to see X-MEN in 2000. Back then, he was only beginning to blow out. His portrayal of Wolverine was wonderful, and the fact that he drank Labatt '50 in the movie only added to my excitement when I visited Ste. Catherine street's Vieille 300 and ordered the same thing to my man Mathieu. I have lately been exposed to him twice, surprisingly. First off in THE PRESTIGE, the latest Christopher Nolan flick, also one of the two "magicians" flick released in a few months - the other one being Neil Burger's THE ILLUSIONIST.



THE PRESTIGE proposes a story of friendship, deceit and revenge. A story that might have been childish and unbelievable had it been directed by someone else than Nolan. It's the story of two magician friends, Robert Angier (Jackman) and Alfred Borden (Christian Bale), who learn the ropes together from "Cutter" (Michael Caine), a guy building various tricks & machines. However, their friendship will not last, following a tragic incident causing the death of Angier's wife, and they'll spend the rest of their existence fighting & competing with each other. Like kids, really.



What saves the day here is Nolan's lush cinematography, some welcome surnatural elements, and the deconstructed narrative, happening on different time levels all at once, giving us the key to understand it all at the very end. And the surprise awaiting is equivalent to a M. Night Shyamalan ending, offering an explanation that not too many acute observers could have predicted. The presence of David Bowie as Tesla, a misunderstood electrical genius shadowed by Thomas Edison's monopolistic brutes, is also candy for the eyes. Because yes, huh, I might not have mentioned it, but the action takes place at the turn of the 19th century. Nice period recreation, too. The excitement brought by the magical tricks performed and the inventiveness of these magicians' craft are all very fascinating. There's a few interesting women in there, but they're mainly accessories; Piper Perabo & Scarlett Johansson are both there as two-dimensional love interests, it would seem.



It would also seem that Woody Allen's SCOOP (also from 2006) shares a lot of similarities with THE PRESTIGE. Other than two key players among its casting, that is; Jackman & Johansson appear once again. It's a murder mystery with no edge, taken very lightly, with a once again ridiculous and neurotic Allen appearing, this time as the obsessive-compulsive and hilarious magician Splendini. Johansson is an American journalism student who's given a scoop by the ghost of a dead reporter when she's put in a "dematerialising" box during one of Splendini's shows. The scoop ? That the young and handsome Peter Lyman (Jackman), a lord's son, might be the "Tarot Card Killer" responsible for a series of prostitute killings, Jack the Ripper-style. Johansson will manage to track him down, meet him, and have him fall in love with her without much effort. And when the attraction is shared, she begins to doubt her late reporter's scoop. Splendini, posing as her father, will help her clear things up.



SCOOP features a very funny concept of dead people "cheating death", and appearing among the living to casually discuss their obsessions. It's a very Allen-esque idea, one he already explored in EVERYONE SAYS I LOVE YOU in 1996, during the scene in which the dead rise to dance at the funeral parlor. You might want to argue that old Woody has his good and bad years, but the fact is that even his bad years are better than most filmmaker's good ones. Writing and directing one feature length movie a year must be extremely tiring, and yet Allen never slows down, and has been steadily churning them out since 1982, after a short break in '81 between STARDUST MEMORIES and A MIDSUMMER NIGHT'S SEX COMEDY.

You have to appreciate his two latest movies shot in London, a place that seems to have given him a new creative start. I'm sure that the well rounded Scarlett has a big part to play in all this - who wouldn't be inspired by her curves and incredible lips ? Jackman is a handsome upper-class bloke here, easily seducing everybody he comes in contact with, and very far from the hairy and savage Wolverine he plays in the X-Men franchise.



Speaking of which, WOLVERINE is coming in 2008, and Jackman will reprise his role in a movie written by David Benioff (Spike Lee's THE 25TH HOUR) and inspired by the "Weapon X" comic book series published by Marvel. Promising !

Une Remarquable Carence de Tolérance

Le ridicule ne tue pas, il paraît. Au sein d'une société graduellement de plus en plus tolérante, il est paradoxalement de plus en plus choquant d'être exposé à l'étroitesse d'esprit que persistent à adopter certaines personnes. La semaine dernière dans le New York Times, je suis tombé sur cette brève :



STUDENT SUES OVER ‘BROKEBACK MOUNTAIN’

Alleging that a substitute teacher showed the R-rated film “Brokeback Mountain” in an eighth-grade classroom, a 12-year-old student and her grandparents are suing the Chicago Board of Education for about $500,000, The Associated Press reported. The lawsuit also names the school principal and the substitute teacher, and maintains that the student, Jessica Turner, suffered psychological distress necessitating treatment and counseling. The 2005 film, starring Heath Ledger and Jake Gyllenhaal as cowboys who attempt to conceal a gay relationship, won Academy Awards for direction, screenplay and score. The lawsuit, filed in Cook County Circuit Court by Ms. Turner and her grandparents, Kenneth and LaVerne Richardson, said that the substitute teacher, referred to as Ms. Buford, asked a student to shut the classroom door at the Ashburn Community Elementary School last year and said, “What happens in Ms. Buford’s class stays in Ms. Buford’s class.” Mr. Richardson complained to school officials in 2005 about reading material that he said included curse words. Of the screening, he said: “This was the last straw. I feel the lawsuit was necessary because of the warning I had already given them on the literature they were giving out to children to read. I told them it was against our faith.”

Vous avez dit "n'importe quoi" ?!

*

Bruno Mattei n'est plus. C'est la triste nouvelle que j'ai apprise en début de semaine en consultant mes courriels. L'homme, né en 1931 à Rome, était reconnu pour ses films fauchés mais sympathiques, qui ont pris un tournant fort douteux au milieu des années '80, comme ceux de pas mal tous ses confrères "artisans" de films de genre. Débutant dans le métier comme monteur, dans les années '60, pour des productions d'espionnage et des péplums, il réalisa en 1976 son premier film, LOVE SACRIFICE. Suivirent plusieurs classiques tels que SS EXTERMINATION LOVE CAMP et EMANUELLE AND THE EROTIC NIGHTS (tous deux en '77), ou son film de nonnes THE OTHER HELL (1980).



Il tournait rapidement, torchant plusieurs films par année avec un penchant marqué pour le sordide. Ses films les plus connus sont HELL OF THE LIVING DEAD (1980), un incroyable foutoir bourré de zombies et aujourd'hui devenu énormément révéré; BLADE VIOLENT (1983), un film de "femmes en prison" avec Laura Gemser; et RATS : NIGHT OF TERROR (1984), sa seule aventure dans le genre très "italien" du film de post-apocalypse.



S'étant progressivement retiré du domaine depuis 1996, Mattei effectuait depuis peu un retour aux films d'horreur, grâce entre autres à une persévérance remarquable et aux nouvelles opportunités offertes par la vidéo et la distribution de DVDs par internet. Ni les critiques, ni les fans ne sont tendres envers des titres comme CANNIBAL FEROX 3 : LAND OF DEATH (2003) ou encore ISLAND OF THE LIVING DEAD (2006), productions qui ont l'air extrêmement "fauchées" et que Mattei a tourné sous pseudo - entre autres avec son reconnaissable "Vincent Dawn". Plusieurs vieillards qui persistent à tourner ont un peu perdu leur "touche" avec les années (on n'a qu'à penser à Jess Franco ou, plus près de chez nous, à George A. Romero) et on se pose souvent la question : est-il préférable de se souvenir de ces hommes via leurs oeuvres les plus célébrées, ou de les voir continuer à nous offrir leurs visions sur pellicule, aussi piètres soient-elles ?



Je vous laisse méditer sur la question pendant que je vais visionner ROBOWAR...

Inner Ear

Needless to say, I've been bumpin' around town sick as a dog since April 28th, and didn't think much of it, until the symptoms started making me unable to sleep - and until a piercing migraine started being my best friend. I thought it was funny that only one side of my face (the right one) would be affected. I would wake up with a sore throat, after having coughed all night, my teeth hurting, my eye feeling as if pierced by a needle, with a massive headache. One morning I felt as if someone had stabbed my right ear. I couldn't get out of bed until six, prefering to sleep through the pain.



I've been sick before, but not that much. Every Spring, I feel bad for a while, and then it goes away. I usually suffer from one bronchitis a year, towards the end of the semester, when I'm so exhausted that my immune system is fucked. But it's been a busy winter so far, and since I stopped taking the bus on April 1st, the weather has been terrible - I don't think that biking in the rain with cold winds has helped me at all.

I started taking Sinutab, thinking I was only congested because of a cold that wouldn't quit. It did the job for a while until I had ingested all 24 tabs. I went back to get Sudafed, which proved kinda useless - it didn't take away any pain and seemed to work on my sinuses only on the left side of my face. I spoke with my pharmacist, and he told me to get Personnelle "rhume + sinus" caplets, filled with goodies like ibuprofen & pseudoephedrine. 20 pills later - I had to take them two at a time, every six hours - I wasn't feeling any better. I decided to haul my ass to the clinic on Thursday, my only day off.



I got there around 3 and waited for an hour, trying to begin Jon Lee Anderson's THE FALL OF BAGHDAD while an old biker was complimenting me on my tattoos. My doctor, whose last name is Chéry, examined me for about three seconds, after I told him about my symptoms, and concluded I had an otitis - a good old ear infection. I used to have one a year when I was younger, and the cure was always some delicious banana-flavoured syrup. No such luck this time - I got stuck with Apo-Amoxi, whatever the fuck that is. A pill every 8 hours for 10 days. My doctor also told me to ease up on the painkillers, because it was bringing my blood pressure up. Except that if I don't gobble up these fuckers like candy, life's a bitch.

So I went from drunk to drug addict in no time.

*

Patrice Sauvé is the man we can find behind such TV series as GRANDE OURSE and he directed a few episodes of LA VIE, LA VIE. I have never seen what he's done, because as some of you might already know I am not the greatest television consumer in this world. Often, when a TV director jumps to cinema, it stinks. It looks like a 90 minutes TV show with a budget on steroids. Is that the case with CHEECH, Sauvé's first escapade for the big screen ?



Narrating the troubles of six inter-connected characters over one snowy winter day in Montreal, the movie focuses on Ron (a very hairy Patrice Robitaille), the boss of an escort agency that's just been robbed off its "book" - containing all of the agency's girls pictures. Ron is on the verge of a nervous breakdown, and so is Stéphanie (Fanny Mallette), one of his female employees. His right hand man, a simpleton named Maxime (Maxime Denommée), is in love with Stéphanie and is trying to convince her to quit the biz. Meanwhile, another hooker from his harem, Jenny (Anick Lemay), struggles with an office day job, her customers (including a fat and midget-like moustache-wearing Luc Senay - I think he wouldn't be able to do the "split" nowadays) and the urge to switch agencies and go to Cheech's. Two neighbors, the apathetic Olivier (François Létourneau) and a supremely depressed guy (whose fictional name escapes me) played by Maxim Gaudette, exchange tricks & visits; Gaudette tells Olivier to call a hooker to make him feel better.

Of course, Ron will end up suspecting Cheech's agency of the break-in, and in the lusty and grey underbelly of Montreal, all these headcases will bump into each other and try to get through the day without cracking up. Amusing how a movie about an escort agency manages to slip through its 104 minutes running time without showing a single ounce of skin. The ladies stay dressed, and the men behave - cocks generally stay safely tucked in pants, except for one hilarious exception.



Patrice Robitaille does an honest portrayal of a man walking on a thin rope, stopping every now and then in the course of his day for "spirit moments", thoughts about life he whispers in his portable recorder, supposed to calm him down. He perfectly fits the role - his "tall pimp with messy hair and fancy but inappropriate shoes" number is funny and believable. Some of the script's coincidences are bigger than others, but overall it's a fun & touching movie, without any right-wing moral message (blush, MA FILLE MON ANGE) or redeeming finale. Among a landfill full of turds like NOUVELLE-FRANCE or MAURICE RICHARD, it is movies like this that keep Québec's cinematography well balanced, and prevents it from sinking into stinky, bottomless depths.

*

In 2003, Glen Morgan directed the Crispin Glover vehicle WILLARD. That was his first job as a director after jumping the boat first from his writer's seat, then from his producer's Ferrari. One of the pens & wallets behind the first & third volumes of the FINAL DESTINATION franchise, the man has struck again, this time with an uneventful and unnecessary remake of Bob Clark's fantastic BLACK CHRISTMAS, from '74.



The story remains the same : some sorority girls stuck in school at Christmas are celebrating together, but are being progressively slashed in the course of the day. That's a nice excuse to show pretty girls gettin' killed, and a house secluded by a snowstorm.



While I have seen the original some years ago, my memories of it have already faded, and I can't really compare, except that John Saxon is nowhere to be seen in this one ! Instead, we get a bunch of extremely good-looking "teenagers" (played by Katie Cassidy, Michelle Trachtenberg, Lacey Chabert, etc...) who are disposed of by an insane guy freshly escaped from his mental institution. The psychopath has a rare liver disease that gives him a yellow skin - reminds me of something Frank Miller drew, no ? - and has been raised by a sluttly mother that he quite litterally ate after killing her, back in the good old days where matricide was still considered cool.

Insert some typical "girly" drama, family tensions, a local pretty boy who's boning two of the chickas - and even posting a saucy sex video on the internet ! - and you pretty much get a lil' 80-something minutes of good clean blood red fun.



The movie is well directed, and the gore is good - splattered here and there - but the violence is ingeniously suggested rather than graphically shown. The script doesn't make any sense, and even borrows some of its elements from Wes Craven's THE PEOPLE UNDER THE STAIRS (1991). It contains everything : false shocks, red herrings, villains that don't really die, and uneffective police. As well as Crystal Lowe's best push-up bra. No nudity, though, which was a key in the original 80's slashers. I have mixed feelings; it's pure breed "teen" stamped junk, and at some level, I find it surprisingly entertaining. Go figure.

Not Hot Heat

Last Saturday marked the arrival of a cold in my life. The worst kind. A cold that makes you wonder if there's a garbage dump truck with too much exhaust rolling down your throat and dropping some baggage along the way. I have been sick all week, but it didn't prevent me from going out on Monday and getting way too drunk to remember everything that happened. I also got to bed very late every night, watched a few movies, and tried to keep up. On my Thursday off, after writing for a few hours & drinking coffee, I went biking around, went to Bender's place to listen to his latest tracks - some of them have been signed to Oliver Huntemann's label Confused - and went to eat burgers at Miss Bijoux'.

I was supposed to have a few beers with some friends later on, and the Drunk Rocker showed up earlier so we could down a few Sapporos. We slowly got drunk, and in between conversations about Lucie Laurier, Nelly Arcan and other uninteresting topics, something seems to have snapped somewhere. Was it a rattle in the air, or the mucus in my brain ? The gin or the beer ? The twelve million things I did and didn't do during the previous days ? I was deep in the middle of a cold, perhaps thinking I was living its final stage, an impression forced on me by the booze I was massively absorbing. My cold was perhaps due to the 30 rainy days in April where I biked to work. When I curse against the shitty weather, it's about its logical consequences that I think; besides the bad drivers you have to watch out for with your bike breaks not working when they're wet, you also have to consider that being soaked from head to toe by COLD water, and then exposed to a strong COLD wind, has to have an effect sometime, somewhere.



So about the snap. Did I become a different person that evening ? I don't think so. Was the way some people perceive me changed forever ? No doubt. Because Miss Bijoux got really angry, or something, and since she's in Toronto until the wee hours of Monday, I can't really ask her what's up. She suggested I should "grow up" in an email she sent me, around 3 AM that night. We are no longer a couple but I cherish her with all my heart and I really don't like doing something harmful to her, even when I don't even realise it.

When we left her place, we were joined by Kardec, and headed for the Bistrot de Paris. It's central, well situated, and sparsely attended. It's an old school tavern, with Video-Poker machines in the back and drunks at the bar. When we got there, there was a lady sleeping on the counter and I ordered a big Labatt 50 bottle. This is something we seemingly have lost - big beer bottles cannot easily be found in modern Montreal watering holes. I told the guy at the bar : "Just like in the good old days of La Vieille 300."

[Flashback : In 2001, back when the old S.A.T. was located on Ste-Catherine, in an old bank building in front of the Spectrum, there was always a line-up for the events we were going to, because the doors rarely opened on time. And you probably know that waiting in line with THE THIRST is quite boring. So we slowly started going to the Vieille 300, a tevern located just in front, sitting near the front window and drinking big beer bottles. When the line-up started moving, we would cross the street again, slightly drunk, and resume the partying in a "trendier" setting. The place, however, was so laidback that we started going there even when nothing was going on at the S.A.T. - basically every time we wanted to drink cheap beer and talk. The Saturday night waiter started remembering our faces, and one Saturday we were with a few girlies and it was closing time. The time had flown without us noticing. So the waiter came to see us and said : "Just so you know, it's 3:20. I don't mind you staying here longer but you'll have to move to the back and roll me a joint". We stayed there until about 6 AM and he paid for all the beer we drank. I was probably too intoxicated to notice but the next morning I found out that I hadn't spent much. I also took home quite a babe, but that's another story.

One day I was walking in front of the tavern when the waiter came out running, calling my name. He hadn't seen me in a while and wanted to know what was up. I told him that pretty fuckin' soon we'd do an "afterhours" again. When I went to have a beer with a friend a few months later, my friend wasn't there. The current waiter told me he had left. A few years later, my two friends Brigitte & Jacynthe were celebrating their 33th birthday and were doing it at the Bistrot. They asked me to DJ so I went there in the afternoon to hook up my turntables. The owner & I were looking at each other for a while, and at one point I realised that he was my Saturday night waiter. End of flashback]

That's when he recognised me. The rest of the night was pretty fun, but around 2 AM Kardec was ready for something else. He got us guest lists for the Peer Pressure showcase at Lambi, where Flosstradamus were putting the party in the place. On the way to the club we ran into Bruce Benson, who was text messaging in front of Salon Daomé. We chatted for a while and then climber the stairs of Lambi, where everybody was tightly packed. This place easily gets hot, and the chicks were also pretty hot themselves. But perhaps a little young. We drank only one beer and got out. It was over anyway. Downstairs we were chatting with the flyer girls, and the Drunk Rocker told me he was going home. A few minutes later I saw Kardec getting out and he proposed we go to his place to drink Chartreuse & listen to a few of his latest tracks.



Little did I know I would be there until 7:30, going through his record shelves quite drunk. When I jumped back on my bike after leaving, it was so sunny that I didn't want to go home. I just cruised the streets, puzzled by the view of a few people walking to work.

*

My Chabrol of the week was LES BONNES FEMMES, a 1960 black & white shot classic. I logically wanted to see, after A DOUBLE TOUR (1959) the week before, what the follow-up would be. Chabrol is known for many things, and the three main characteristics of his movies are an hitchcockian eye, an obsession with upper class social mechanics, and beautiful women. The movie we're discussing today proposes two of the latter, focusing this time on a group of small time saleswomen and what they do for fun.



The movie begins with two of the girls, Jane (Bernadette Lafont) and Jacqueline (Clotilde Joano), being picked up by two partying womanisers for a meal and a grand tour of some nightclubs. Jacqueline saves herself for a man she'll truly love, and soon gets tired of the two guys' manners, and leaves. Jane has a boyfriend in the army, but she's somewhat easy and ends up following the men home and being tricked into a threesome. She gets home at dawn and wakes her roommate Ginette (Stéphane Audran). The next day, they go back to work where life goes on...



What we're faced with here is the quiet life of a few "modern" - for 1960 - parisian girls, where they dream out loud about passionnate love and walk around town looking for something to do. Men are presented here as a menace, and even those who, at first glance, seem innocent... are not. Chabrol takes us around some clubs and restaurants, people eat a lot, and we even get to visit the zoo. It's everyday life until the very end, where the tone shifts. The innocence is gone, the fantasy fades to be brutally replaced by a grim reality, and it concludes on an enigmatic note.



Claude Berri plays Jane's soldier boyfriend, in an early role. The two most breath taking presences in the movie are, of course, Clotilde Joano and Bernadette Lafont. Joano would play in another Chabrol, LES NOCES ROUGES, in 1973, and also appeared in Bertrand Tavernier's L'HORLOGER DE SAINT-PAUL in 1974 shortly before her death. Her beauty is gracious and tragic, and her soft eyes are immensely lovely. [She died in 1974 for reasons I could not find out. If anybody knows, please share the info with me...] Lafont is no stranger to beauty, and her right on portrayal of an easy-going girl with low morals does not for one moment take away her enormous charm. LES BONNES FEMMES is the kind of movie in which you fall in love with at least one of the girls, wether you're nostalgic or not about this long-lost era.

From Chicago to L.A.

At the beginning of the week, in the New York Times, I read something that could be considered good news, at least if we juxtapose it to all the tragedies currently happening all over the world. It was a very brief piece of news, but it has an extreme significance - at least for the Chicago Skyline's future :



Commission Approves Chicago Spire

The Chicago Spire, a 2,000-foot tower designed by Santiago Calatrava, has been approved by the Chicago Planning Commission. The structure, with 1,200 residences, would be on North Lake Shore Drive, where the Chicago River meets Lake Michigan. It still needs the approval of the City Council. Construction would begin this spring, with completion in 2010.

Far from being a catastrophe, this design has made the rounds of architecture magazines for a few years. Unlike most of the surreal projects designed by visionaries, thought, this one will actually get built. What's new here is that the building will not be comprised of 100% office space; 1,200 residences will be included. They probably won't be social housing, mind you, but if you think about it, that's about 1,200 empty appartments for the masses to take. Appartments will soon fall out of flavour anyway. Everybody and its dog are buying condos. Everybody's got nice stuff but me, as sung by the Dead Milkmen.



I must admit that I like what Calatrava does, but to a certain extent. His work is very unique, and inspired - to be convinced, one only has to take a look at his Trinity Bridge, in Manchester, or at the masterful '94-built Lyon-Satolas Airport Railway Station - and the fuildity of his shapes always hit the observer's imagination. But his "signature" curves and large, useless structures defy the mission and meaning of design, or of design as some of us see it : to make sure every aspect of the physical structure is useful, or has a goal. Superfluous seagull wings might be symbolic and very beautiful, but it's pure material wasted in a decorative frenzy.



The Spire seems like one of those buildings that still retains Calatrava's touch, but that proposes no wasted space. And that is an achievement. In an era where returning to simplicity seems the norm, and where big is always criticised, such a structure is a big "fuck you" to conventions.

Now, let's just hope that Chicago's City Council agrees with me on that one.

*

HARSH TIMES is one of those movies I really wanted to see, but about which I didn't want to hear anything. I wanted my experience to be a complete surprise. I had a slight idea of its synopsis, but I avoided reading critics or looking up "amateur appreciations" on the web. I'm known to be a patient man. And so I waited. Waited for its DVD release date, and waited until the buzz cooled down so I could get it for free on a Boîte Noire employee friend's account.



I wasn't disappointed by all these months in limbo. HARSH TIMES is first and foremost the story of Jim Luther Davis (Christian Bale), an icy ex marine back among the living with quite a few sequels. He expects a job in the L.A.P.D. that will allow him to marry his Mexican girlfriend, but when they decide not to hire him, he blacks out and goes on a slackin' spree. He smokes joints & drinks beers while riding around in his car with his pal Mike (SIX FEET UNDER'S Freddy Rodriguez) in South Central L.A. As their wandering around evolves, you can't help but feel it's not going towards a happy ending...



If you take strong characters portrayed by talented actors, and drive them towards an inevitable faith, the cinematic tension created can become close to unbearable. You don't need kidnapping or big guns to obtain what is commonly refered to as "suspense"; just a situation from which the characters can't get out. Like in Nicolas Winding Refn's PUSHER, Bale's fate is sealed in the first few frames of the movie, when he wakes up from a war-related nightmare in his brand new car somewhere in Mexico.



The small underworld of latino gangsters is well portrayed, and the language level is dead on. It's a brutal world out there, and you never know who's going to die next. Just like at war. This is an "alternate" universe you wouldn't want to live in. David Ayer's first movie is hard-hitting and contemplative; it might not be for everybody, but those who dare take a peek into the troubled lives of these "heroes" will not regret it.

Lettre ouverte à la STM

"S.T.M.", tout le monde le sait, est le sigle de la Société de Transport de Marde. Je leur ai envoyé une "lettre ouverte" le 10 mars et je viens de me rendre compte que je n'ai - à ce jour - pas encore reçu de réponse.

Peut-être que l'actualité de cette missive est aujourd'hui quelque peu défraîchie, mais je me permets quand même de vous l'offrir en pleine face, sans fleurs puantes pour aller avec.



Lettre ouverte à la STM

Bonjour;

La présente est pour vous aviser qu'à partir du 1er avril 2007, vos services ne seront plus requis dans mes déplacements quotidiens.

Comme la saison du vélo est de retour, ça sera un soulagement pour moi de ne plus avoir à emprunter vos autobus aux horaires stupéfiants de débilité, toujours bondés et exceptionnellement mal conduits.

Pendant que les petites vieilles tombent par terre parce que :

a) elles n'ont pas de place pour s'asseoir et
b) vos chauffeurs / chauffeuses kamikazes n'ont jamais appris, semble-t-il, à freiner subtilement,

je serai en train de pédaler dans le trafic en essayant d'éviter de me faire emboutir par ces mêmes chauffeurs / chauffeuses.

Au cas où vous ne l'auriez pas remarqué, la 24 - et d'autres lignes, à ce que j'ai cru comprendre - DÉBORDE. C'est peut-être signe qu'il est temps d'augmenter la fréquence de passage... et non vos tarifs. Attention, j'espère que vous avez bien lu. Quoi ? Ah, vous allez augmenter vos tarifs quand même cette année ? Trois fois plutôt qu'une ? C'est là quelque chose de véritablement surprenant.

Cordialement,

Le blogueur masqué

[J'ai signé ma lettre de mon véritable nom mais je trouve que j'en fais déjà pas mal ici pour que les gens qui me connaissent puissent m'identifier, alors que ceux qui savent qui je suis au civil se réjouissent de leur perspicacité et que les autres - qui s'en crissent probablement - continuent de s'en crisser.]

Embarré en d'dans

Je pétitionne sauvagement pour faire déclarer illégale toute activité professionnelle par un si beau jour. Samedi, midi 48. J'ai dormi quatre petites heures cette nuit et je sens que je vais le payer ce soir. Je suis arrivé au bureau en vélo après une magnifique balade sur le bitume de Sherbrooke St. avec le vent dans la face et des mini-jupes plein les yeux. Le soleil tape fort dans les baies vitrées de mon huitième étage et les femmes avec qui je travaille, désoeuvrées, parlent fort - comme d'habitude. Je voudrais être partout ailleurs sauf ici. Donnez-moi un bout de ferme du Delaware ou une plage du Maine, n'importe quoi ! J'irais bien me péter la face dans les vagues froides de Gaspé ou boire une Corona sur la terrasse d'un café trop cher de Baie Saint-Paul.



Je ne sais pas quel genre de structure de support ont utilisé les ingénieurs qui ont bâti l'immeuble dans lequel je travaille, mais je sais que certaines agentes de voyage mangent probablement trop de pâtes et / ou de patates. Elles marchent d'un bout à l'autre du bureau et le sol tremble. Amplitude inconnue, mais c'est du sérieux !

C'est presque tragique de ne pas pouvoir profiter de ces premières belles journées. Je me console en me disant qu'il y a des petits enfants qui meurent de faim partout dans le monde, ou des vieux garçons qui n'ont jamais exploré ce qui se dissimule sous les jupes de mesdemoiselles. Et je me console en me disant que ce soir, je m'en vais voir la belle Maus au De Lima avec le Drunk Rocker, qu'on va en virer une tabarnak, et conduire nos vélos complètement intoxiqués jusqu'au Mile End Bar pour aller serrer la pince de Bender et entendre le beau rouquin Marinelli.

Et demain, je ne m'en souviendrai probablement pas.

*

Depuis BRINGING OUT THE DEAD (1999), Scorcese n'avait pas torché un film que j'aie envie de voir. Quand j'ai rencontré Barbara Bouchet en 2000 à Tarrytown (NY), dans le cadre de CultCon 2000, elle revenait de deux semaines de tournage sur le plateau de GANGS OF NEW YORK, et même cette légère coïncidence ne m'a pas donné le goût de le visionner. Di Caprio, pas mon favori, et couplé à l'aspect "film historique" avec des gars en pantalons accordéon et des bérêts sales, c'était le summum du "pas envie d'voir ça". [J'allais rencontrer, en août 2003, une jolie demoiselle répondant au doux nom de Sara Bouchet, mais elle n'avait malheureusement aucun lien de parenté avec Barbara. Elle était toutefois assez délicieuse et je regrette amèrement qu'elle ait tout fait pour ne pas rester en contact avec moi.]



En 2004, le p'tit grisonnant aux sourcils noirs sortait THE AVIATOR, une autre fresque historique avec Di Caprio. Je répète ? Pas. Envie. D'le voir.



2006. Scorcese sort un "remake" de INFERNAL AFFAIRS, un film de Hong Kong réalisé par Lau Wai Keung et Mak Siu Fai en 2002. THE DEPARTED a tout pour réussir : une belle bande-annonce, et surtout... un casting en BÉTON armé. Les producteurs ont probablement dû cracher le pognon en toussant tellement ça leur faisait mal aux bourses : Jack Nicholson (qui, avec sa drôle de coupe de cheveux, parvient presque à nous faire oublier le monstre sacré qu'il est), Leonardo Di Caprio (encore ! mais bon...), Matt Damon (toujours aussi fouine et détestable, on se demande ce que les filles peuvent lui trouver), Mark Wahlberg (hilarant), Martin Sheen, Alec Baldwin, Ray Winstone et la troublante Vera Farmiga (dont le regard me rappelle étrangement une ancienne fréquentation pharmacologue, mais on gardera cette histoire pour une autre fois si vous le voulez bien).



Outre les joueurs, on a un scénario en béton, actualisation suprêmement habile de celui de 2002, trempé dans la bonne sauce Scorcese - chansons rock fétiches des années '70, technique typique avec plan séquences et narration, personnages déjantés, dialogues finement ciselés - et relocalisation de Hong Kong à Boston. Peu ou pas d'asiatiques en vue, des irlandais homophobes et racistes, et une trame narrative qui crée immanquablement une immense tension chez le spectateur. Vous vous doutez probablement de quoi il retourne : un personnage de truand est "undercover" dans la police de Boston, et un policier a infiltré les mafieux. Et tous les deux jouent à savoir qui démasquera qui le premier.



Nicholson est diabolique; il faut le voir avec sa gueule de maniaque, en robe de chambre, la tête enveloppée dans un nuage de cocaïne, dire à une nana aux gros canons : "You want some coke ? There it is. Don't move till you're numb".



THE DEPARTED est une observation acidulée de la petite pègre de Boston, et des relations souvent incestueuses que ses membres entretiennent avec la loi. Ce sont des personnages jouissifs qui se croisent et s'entrechoquent, quitte à en produire des flamèches. C'est surtout le meilleur film de Scorcese depuis GOODFELLAS en '90, et il n'est guère surprenant qu'il ait râflé tous ces Oscars.

*

En 1959 sortait sur les écrans français A DOUBLE TOUR, le troisième film de Claude Chabrol, et son premier thriller psychologique. Un film pas aussi touffu que tous ceux qui allaient suivre, mais certes fascinant, et magistralement réussi. Le récit est conçu de façon à ce qu'il n'y ait pas vraiment de personnage principal, mais un portrait variable de la bourgeoisie vinicole d'une famille d'Aix-en-Provence. Famille composée du père Henri (Jacques Dacqmine), de sa femme Thérèse (Madeleine Robinson, courageuse), et de leurs deux enfants Richard (André Jocelyn, énigmatique) et la jolie Élisabeth (Jeanne Valérie). Élisabeth fréquente un demi-voyou irresponsable, fort en gueule et constamment saoul (un Jean-Paul Belmondo pré-A BOUT DE SOUFFLE, extrêmement jeune, et surtout impayable) et Henri trompe sa femme avec sa voisine, la belle Léda (Antonella Lualdi). Veille sur ce bel ensemble la bonne Julie, interprétée par une Bernadette Lafont jeune et sensuelle, dont la scène d'ouverture du film fait l'élégie.





Je vous épargnerai les détails de l'intrigue en vous disant qu'elle vaut largement la peine que vous la découvriez vous-même. Sachez toutefois que, outre l'habile étude psychologique, on remarque ici des plans de caméra finement travaillés et ambitieux, et un montage pas toujours linéaire qui y va de quelques astuces - retours en arrière, superpositions, élipses.



On voit ici apparaître pour une des premières fois un rôle de policier atypique, formule sans cesse renouvellée qui deviendra une marque de commerce de Chabrol dans pratiquement tous ses autres films. 1959 se retrouve figée dans le temps, avec la plastique impeccable des actrices de Chabrol le jouisseur, et le vignoble enchanteur dans lequel se déroule l'intrigue nous donne envie d'aller voir si nous y sommes.

Retrouvailles Rock

Suite à une contribution postée sur ce blog le 1er mars 2006, où je m'interrogeais sur le sort d'un vieux pote nommé Dan Laing (et non Lang comme j'avais erronnément écrit), mon espoir d'avoir de ses nouvelles s'était légèrement mis en veilleuse. C'était faire preuve d'un flagrant manque de confiance envers un médium aussi révolutionnaire qu'Internet, médium auquel nous semblons nous être habitué, mais qui n'en est pas moins, comme le clamerait Michel Lemoine, "formidable !". Car c'est là un outil exceptionnel et certains de ses critiques n'en voient que les inconvénients : dégradation de la langue française et perte de temps généralisée sur MSN, accès facilité à la pornographie et aux mauvaises idées telles l'extrémisme et le terrorisme, prédation sexuelle, diffamation. Outre ces quelques côtés décriés - et encore, on pourrait longuement discuter si l'accès facilité à la porno de toute sorte est une bonne ou mauvaise chose - il y a beaucoup d'avantages. Des outils hallucinants pour rester en contact avec son entourage (les courriels, les sites web personels, MySpace, FaceBook, Friendster, Ringo, etc...) à l'information à l'infini, à portée de la main en tout temps, dès qu'on a un accès au réseau, c'est quasiment de la science-fiction.



Les élèves d'aujourd'hui s'engraissent le cul sur leur chaise - ou carrément étendus dans leur lit - pour faire leurs recherches, alors que pas plus tard que dans les années '80, il leur fallait aller passer des heures entières dans une bibliothèque de quartier humide qui ne proposait pas le centième de toute l'information que l'on peut trouver en quelques secondes sur le web, dans le confort de son propre foyer.

Un garçon de St-Tite, donc, a fait cette semaine une recherche pour dénicher des photos de boules disco, sans raison précise. Il est tombé sur un site web appelé Mirrorballs.ca, que j'ai co-fondé et auquel je contribue couramment, et a inévitablement fini par tomber sur mon blog. Probablement curieux, au fil de ses lectures, il a fini par comprendre qui j'étais et s'est rendu compte qu'il me connaissait. Il m'a donc écrit, et a prévenu un certain Daniel Laing - avec lequel il est encore en contact - que je me demandais parfois, au coin du feu, avec avidité, ce qu'il devenait.

J'ai donc reçu consécutivement son courriel ET un commentaire du grand Laing sur mon blog. Ce qui tombe bien, car Sylvain, le gars de St-Tite, m'a assuré que son studio était encore en haut du garage de son père, et qu'on pourrait y enregistrer comme dans l'temps dès cet été. J'avais aussi enregistré en ces lieux les premières chansons d'un album projeté des Ratés, projet au bout duquel nous ne sommes jamais arrivé. J'avais un mix approximatif de ces chansons sur une cassette audio, que je me suis fait dérober par une jolie et vorace demoiselle de Ste-Foy que j'ai passagèrement "fréquenté". Disons que son appétit pour la vie faisait qu'elle ne se satisfaisait pas de mes visites hebdomadaires le week-end, et qu'elle se tapait entre autres le copain de sa meilleure amie, ce qui a précipité la fin de notre relation. Je n'ai donc malheureusement pas eu l'occasion de récupérer les divers objets que je lui avais laissé, ni de lui administrer une dernière baise bien sentie. Parmi les trucs que j'ai dû sacrifier figurait l'exemplaire unique du "rough" mix de l'album des Ratés.



Eh bien aujourd'hui, grâce à la magie du web, j'ai retrouvé mes amis ET ce morceau de l'histoire du rock n' roll de la Mauricie. Bon, peut-être pas, mais disons qu'après presque dix ans je suis drôlement curieux d'entendre comment sonnent mes chansons !

*

Parlant de Saint-Tite, bonne nouvelle ! Il me fait plaisir de vous annoncer en primeur que KENNY ROGERS y performera, dans le cadre du 40e anniversaire du Festival Western, le jeudi 13 septembre. Yeeee haw !

Smart Cats Vs Dumb Dogs

This new Jona track, released on his latest Get Physical Music EP Evidence, kicks ass. Speaking of cats, I always feel pretty concerned everytime somebody I know gets one. I don't like 'em, it's no secret. And when stories like the one I just read in today's Miami Herald emerge, my olfactive imagination works full spin.



Man who had hundreds of cats is charged

OCALA -- (AP) -- A man who kept hundreds of cats at a house that was full of animal waste was charged with animal cruelty.

The floor of Jonathan Terpstra's home was covered with a layer of animal feces between two and three inches deep, authorities said. As many as 300 cats were found.

Terpstra, 61, was charged Friday with 55 counts of animal cruelty, two counts of tampering with evidence and one count of resisting without violence. He remained in the Marion County Jail on $30,000 bail.

An animal cruelty investigator visited the home five years ago, but no violations were found.

In March 2002, an air conditioning repairman called the county to ask for an investigation of the home. The repairman reported seeing 400 cats inside the home -- some of them dead and others without hair on their backs -- and feces all over the house. The repairman also reported about 75 dogs outside.

Lead animal cruelty Investigator Ron Henry went to the property. His report states that 30 dogs were seen on the property, and all the dogs appeared healthy and had food, water and shelter. The report did not mention any cats.

Henry told The Ocala Star-Banner on Monday that when he made the inspection five years ago, a locked gate kept him from getting onto the property.

Without signs of a violation or foul odors, Henry said he's not allowed to enter a home.

How crazy can you get ? 300 cats ?!

How crazy can high school kids get ?! 32 victims ?! Life, for some, is like a bad video game. And why should this fucked up society blame guns when it can blame heavy metal, movie directors, rockers ?

Movin' on up

You can't always stay levelled. Things around you morph & evolve, and so should you. Most people are confortable with moving sideways. Horizontally. For change's sake, they'll switch life partners and end up with different inconveniences, in an equal number, with the same effect : boredom. Same applies for their job : they'll change for almost no benefits, for a mundane detail like the location of their workplace, and they'll be good for a few more years.



It might sound like an easy parallel, but I like to think we're made to move vertically. We grow up. Our body accumulates the extra inches, normally moving on up, and not on the sides, except if your metabolism doesn't want to cooperate, but that's another story. When we fall, we don't fall on the ground as if we were going to sleep; we "end up at the bottom of the barrel". It's a way of saying that we are metaphorically moving down, under the level of the earth. Under the ground, where the dead sleep. When we succeed in a company, we "climb the corporate ladder". And when there's a serious financial crisis, we've often seen dudes who have their offices on the 29th floor jump off the window and go down a couple of storeys at full speed.

As some of you know, there are big changes in my life right now. I am questioning most aspects of my miserable existence. Is it worth it finishing a university program in which I am no longer interested ? What will become of my professional life ? Will I be stuck in small time offices all my life ? How old do you need to be to become a pathetic clubber ? Am I on the verge of qualifying ? Shouldn't I be raising kids in a suburbian home right now ? Am I lazy ? Where do I belong in a society which codes are like a foreign language to me ? Can we live off our passion if this "passion" is highly uncommon ? Can I be labeled as "different" ? And if so, does this difference help me in getting better chances in life, or is it one of the reasons I'm still living as if I was 21 ?

When I feel like shit, I know what to do. It is juvenile and not very mature, but oh so satisfying. Tonight, I'll get drunk and party with my good friends Troïka, Rev, Gin & Tonic, and with party people such as Tiga, Tommie Sunshine & Jordan Dare. Let's get degraded !

*

Another discipline of mine, sometimes labeled as "escapism" by people who can't understand the fascination it provides, is VHS hunting. My best days are behind me, of course, since the medium is slowly but steadily disappearing - even Boîte Noire are selling their tapes for 1$ each - but even among my own collection I sometimes discover oddities. Back when I was "trading" on a regular basis, people would always throw in "freebies" or obscure titles, and I would just add them to my list, put them in a box and store it away. Since I have started "cleaning up" this mess, watching movies and then giving them to friends, or dubbing something else over the tapes, I have come across a highly surprising number of underrated curiosities. The most UFO-like being this week's THE TEACHER.



Directed by Howard Avedis, this 1974 oddity is labeled as a drama, but whatever it was in the first place, the french dubbing my copy suffered from has obliterated it. It starts out rather weirdly, with a seemingly disturbed teenager named Ralph (Anthony James) following a high school teacher around in his hearse. The teacher, Diane (Angel Tompkins), is a rather sexy californian-type blonde, who drives an electric blue Corvette Stingray and regularly gets her tan improved on her yatch. Ralph, of course, spies on her with his binoculars, something his little brother Lou is aware of. One afternoon, Lou takes his best friend Sean (Jay North) along to spy on the babe, but they're caught by Ralph and Lou, surprised and afraid, falls down several storeys to his death. Sean is troubled, but not enough to steer clear from Diane's flirting. Diane happens to be his teacher, his mother's best friend, and quite a babe. They start seeing each other, and even though Diane is 10 years older than him and divorced, the people around them don't see this relationship as very healthy. Meanwhile, Ralph is convinced that Sean pushed Lou to his death and jealous he's banging the object of his sexual obsession, so he keeps on stalking them.

The story is very twisted, but the way it is shown to us makes it almost "normal". Who wouldn't want Angel Tompkins as a girlfriend ? She drives a wonderful car, owns a boat, has a pool in her backyard and encourages underage drinking. And oh yeah, she's smoking hot ! The tagline, "Her best lessons were taught after class !", is rather funny. Funny because it's true; to Sean's father, she's corrupting him. To his mother though, she's just helping him becoming a man. If all of us kids had an "initiation" this good, we'd probably be very fussy about women right now.



The story unfolds smoothly, but constantly hesitates between teen comedy and drama. This oscillation doesn't help the atmosphere, and Anthony James popping up everywhere like bad news, without being noticed, is a rather ridiculous element. The camera isn't always at the right spot, as there are lots of wide angles at times when a closer frame would have been needed. The movie could have been just a sex comedy, without this dramatic touch, and nobody would have complained. It ends up feeling like a schizophrenic outing, where eroticism is always compromised by Ralph's unealthy voyeurism. Not a bad psychological effect, but I doubt it's voluntary. It would seem that this movie was released on DVD in 2002, and I sincerely hope that the image quality is better than what I've seen on VHS.

[As a bonus, I have come across a blog that seems to compile "bad teachers" cases in the US media, and the adress is worthy of sharing, as it's fascinating reading material. We've all had the hots for a teacher at one point of our lives, and these stories are encouraging news for those of you still hoping : http://outhouserag.typepad.com/outhouserag/bad_teacher/index.html ]

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My Chabrol of the week was an undisputed classic : QUE LA BETE MEURE. The beast must die, quite litterally. And before diving in details about the movie itself, it's worthy of noting that this 1969 masterpiece inspired Sean Penn's THE CROSSING GUARD. The movie itself is adapted from a novel by Nicholas Blake, and the way Chabrol quietly translates it into moving images is, once again, amazing.



Charles Thénier's son is killed in a hit-and-run by a sports car driver while crossing a calm street in Bretagne. The police aren't doing much to find the driver so Thénier (played by a cold and calculating Michel Duchaussoy), who only lives to find his son's killer and get revenge, begins his own inquiry. He accidentally finds some leads that will take him to Hélène Lanson (Caroline Cellier, charming), a bird brained actress that was inside the car when it killed the boy. He's getting closer. And when he is finally introduced to the man responsible for his grief, he ends up facing the vilest man he's ever met : Jean Yanne.



Yanne, who plays garage owner Paul Decourt, is litterally an animal; he lets his hot-headed temper lead the way. He doesn't respect anything, sleeps with pretty much every woman in sight, and beats on his son. He has absolutely no moral objectivity and the fact that he's successful prevents his entourage from confronting him about his bad manners. Yanne was already a seasoned actor in France when he landed this role, and would appear in yet another Chabrol classic, LE BOUCHER, the following year. He then developed his humor and appeared in many French comedies over the years, including alongside a blind Thierry Lhermitte in Gérard Mordillat's hilarious FUCKING FERNAND (1987). He died from a heart attack in 2003.



Duchaussoy was also part of LA FEMME INFIDELE, another flick that Chabrol directed the same year, and has collaborated with the director a total of eight times. He is the personification of vengeance, patient enough to wait for years before having the satisfaction of killing the beast responsible for his son's death. Caroline Cellier, one of French cinema's timeless beauties, succeeds in bringing dome depth to a character that most girls would have played as is : empty. When Duchaussoy says, in the voice-over : "Je commençais à m'attacher à cette petite écervelée..." we have no problem believing him.

This movie is a classic for many reasons. The narrative is far from traditional. The Bretagne landscapes are breath taking. The unflattering portrait of the French bourgeoisie, an obsessive theme for Chabrol, is right on target. I have yet to be disappointed by old Claude. Next week : we travel 10 years back in time and take a look at A DOUBLE TOUR (1959), Chabrol's third feature and his first psychological thriller.

Merry Fuckin' Christmas

Have you looked outside lately ? Did you notice the SNOWSTORM yesterday ? Did you notice that it was April 12th on the calendar ?



That's it. I'm gettin' the fuck out of this awful country.

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It looks like the Laval subway will finally open on April 28th. I just received an AMT memo about it. Will be good for my last summer in town. I'll be able to visit my mom without too many inconveniences every time I'm hungry !



It's funny it took so long for it to already happen. A subway station in Laval has been on every politician's agenda since the 80's. The bill has tripled since the initial evaluation, and we know these north shore fellas love their cars. Will the new stations be a hit among the 450's ? Will they just plain snub the trains and keep on parking their huge-ass SUV's in our streets ? Remains to be seen.

All I know is that I'm still boycotting the goddamn STM and biking my way through life, even if it means, like all day yesterday, getting splashed by slush from passing cars. Drivers go berserk when they have to share the road with bikes, and their bloodlust will only be satisfied once I'm dead, crushed under their tires.

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Lots of people are dying lately. Not just in the ordinary world. Last week, on April 4th, Bob Clark was hit by a drunk driver - who didn't even hold a license - while traveling with his son. Both were killed, but the drunk driver survived. Clark is best known for being a Canadian pioneer in shlock horror and exploitation, as he's responsible for directing movies such as CHILDREN SHOULDN'T PLAY WITH DEAD THINGS (1972), DEAD OF NIGHT (1974) and BLACK CHRISTMAS (also 1974).



He broke into the mainstream in 1982 with the legendary teen sex comedy PORKY'S, a movie that, along with its few sequels, has transformed my vision of women. Ever since I first saw it, I've been trying to find my own "Lassie" to hump her in a sweaty locker room.



Another great loss would be Kurt Vonnegut Jr, this unreal writer who turned out masterpieces such as BREAKFAST OF CHAMPIONS and SLAUGHTERHOUSE FIVE - to mention only his two immensely popular landmarks. He died on April 11th, at the age of 84. His surreal tales, who were always spiced with the sweetest humor there is, a unique brand of absurd & social observation, will live on.

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Speaking of dead people, I have seen Brian de Palma's THE BLACK DAHLIA a few weeks ago. It reminded me of a New York Times article that my good ghost friend Caron sent to me when the movie was originally released, titled : "Say De Palma. Then Watch Everybody Fight".



Because the director is either loved, or hated. And I have to admit that while his James Elroy adaptation is full of redeeming qualities, including a gorgeous cinematography and a meticulous era recreation, it doesn't quite cut it. It's very confusing, and some of the "surprises" don't really make sense. That is not uncommon of De Palma, a director who will often sacrifice logic at the profit of style. Here, you get everything associated to L.A. in the fourties : fistfight matches, crooked cops, gorgeous cars, and femmes fatales. Everything associated with De Palma as well : Scarlett Johansson in blond, visual trickery, and an overactive narrative. Things happen at a pace so fast that if you blink an eye for more than a few seconds, you'll become very confused.



Don't see this movie if you're tired, because there's an extensive focus put on the way time unfolds, and a discourse about its elasticity. Or maybe not. But it's predictable as hell, and there are too many clichés to be ignored. There's also a very improbable "chic" lesbians club, where K.D. Lang sings the blues to a plattoon of lipstick dames. Aaron Eckhart is an ideal hero, cast well opposite Josh Hartnett who could use some muscle. He's a bit too soft for my tastes. So it's hard to believe that he's banging both Mia Kirschner (our beloved and sexy montrealer expat) AND Johansson. May the celluloid wrath strike him with a boner.



The DVD extras are far more interesting than the movie itself, with a featurette about James Elroy, his book, and the real "Black Dahlia" case. The movie is worthy of attention for its gloss, and fans of De Palma should check it out - because others might regret it.

Bizarro-Rama

J'ai parfois l'impression que le monde qui m'entoure évolue sous anesthésie, ou que c'est moi qui suis complètement dans les vapes. L'état d'isolement dans lequel je tente de me plonger de plus en plus fréquemment y est peut-être pour quelque chose; quand je suis seul dans mon coin, abîmé dans mes réflections, je suis davantage apte à observer objectivement les êtres qui m'entourent. Et ces êtres feraient n'importe quoi pour ne pas avoir à se retrouver en tête-à-tête avec eux-mêmes. Ils cherchent du regard quelqu'un avec qui discuter, et une fois qu'ils ont trouvé un interlocuteur, ils cherchent quoi dire. Ils n'ont pas de raison précise pour interpeller leur prochain; ils ont juste envie que le temps passe plus vite.



Cela sera peut-être une confession extrêmement égoïste. Peut-être que votre perception de moi changera après cette lecture. Qui sait. Mais j'ai envie d'être honnête aujourd'hui, et de vous exposer une situation absurde qui dure depuis un certain temps au bureau où je travaille. Il y a là du drame, du désespoir, et de la lassitude. De la folie, peut-être, et un écoeurement progressif de ma part. J'ai pas de coeur.

Une femme d'origine iranienne travaille avec moi depuis que j'ai été engagé en août 2003 - eh oui, je suis pathétique. Elle a fui le climat politique de son pays pour venir refaire sa vie ici, avec ses deux fils. Je ne connais pas beaucoup son histoire mais je sais qu'elle élevait seule ses enfants, jusqu'à tout récemment. Elle n'a pas trouvé de partenaire de vie; un de ses fils est mort. L'an dernier, dans une fusillade. La police soupçonne que c'est à cause d'une histoire de drogue. Évidemment, cette femme est depuis très malheureuse. Mais elle travaille encore et semble tenir le coup, et elle a bien entendu un autre fils dont elle doit s'occuper.

Cette femme est étrange. Elle est muslim mais ne semble pas s'embarasser d'une quelconque orthodoxie. Elle est sournoise, et pleine de préjugés. Elle espionne tous les employés de notre département, et rapporte leurs écarts de conduite aux superviseurs. Elle ne regarde personne dans les yeux. Elle chantonne sans cesse. Elle avait un problème d'hygiène corporelle pendant sa première année au bureau et il a fallu que plusieurs employés fassent front commun pour qu'elle apprenne à se laver ou à utiliser du déodorant, peu importe. Et tout cela ne date pas de l'an dernier; depuis que je la connais, elle est comme ça.

J'essaie de m'asseoir le plus loin possible d'elle pour éviter de capter ses marmonnements ou d'être victime de sa constante surveillance. Depuis quelques mois, elle semble vraiment apprécier ses employeurs, puisque même une fois qu'elle a terminé son quart de travail elle reste sur les lieux et flâne. Elle termine généralement à 16h30, et il arrive qu'elle soit encore en train de se ballader à 20h. Et je n'y peut rien : elle m'énerve.

Cette animosité n'est pas gratuite; j'ai déjà personnellement été victime de ses dénonciations. Pour une raison subconsciente qui m'échappe, sa voix m'est extrêmement désagréable. Et c'est tout. Je ne la supporte pas. Suis-je abject ? Question morale : doit-on faire preuve d'indulgence à l'égard d'un individu que nous détestons normalement lorsque cet individu est affligé d'une peine majeure ? C'est à vous de le décider. Les lignes sont ouvertes, nous attendons votre appel.

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Une histoire complètement tirée par les cheveux publiée dans le New York Times d'aujourd'hui :

Encore for Movie Hounds

In true show-business fashion, two black Labrador retrievers who took their act on the road and became a smash hit have been held over indefinitely. The retrievers, Lucky and Flo, lent to Malaysia by the Motion Picture Association of America to sniff out counterfeit DVDs, were originally to stay abroad for a month. Billed as the only dogs in the world trained to detect a chemical used in making the discs, they took part in raids on warehouses, shops and offices that uncovered 1.2 million pirated DVDs and CDs worth nearly $3.5 million. Adding drama and suspense to the dogs’ exploits, Malaysian movie pirates have reportedly put bounties on their heads. At the request of the Malaysian government, Lucky and Flo will be based there “for the foreseeable future,” said Neil Gane, the motion picture association’s senior operations executive.

On aura tout lu...

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J'ai récemment mentionné ici un film de Henri Verneuil, LES MORFALOUS. Je suis récemment tombé sur la VHS de I COMME... ICARE (1979), que je m'étais jadis procuré car la somptueuse Brigitte Lahaie y figure; je ne savais toutefois pas que "figurer" était le terme exact. En effet, son temps d'antenne est comparable à sa présence dans le récent CALVAIRE (2004), de Fabrice Du Welz.. Ce qui n'enlève rien à la qualité exceptionnelle du film, bien entendu.



Considéré dans son pays de production comme un classique, le synopsis rappelle énormément celui de Z, de Costa-Gavras, adapté du roman de Vassilis Vassilikos, et qui date de 10 ans plus tôt, en 1969. Yves Montand y tient un rôle similaire de procureur en quête de la vérité, oeuvrant dans la droiture la plus complète contre la corruption générale de tout un système politique. Mes souvenirs du film de Costa-Gavras sont plutôt vagues, car je l'ai vu il y a plus de dix ans alors qu'il passait sur les ondes du légendaire Canal D, alors mes comparaisons s'arrêteront ici.

Le président d'une république fictive - qui ressemble beaucoup au quartier de la Défense de Paris - prône des changements politiques radicaux et est brutalement assassiné par un tueur troublé, ayant agi seul. Ou c'est du moins ce qu'une commission d'enquête en conclut, un an après le drame, après avoir épluché les témoignages de plusieurs centaines de témoins. Cependant, un homme farouche, le procureur Henri Volney (Yves Montand), refuse de signer le rapport car il soupçonne que la vérité est tout autre. Il est donc nommé à la tête d'une nouvelle commission et commence à mener sa petite enquête...



Il est hallucinant de voir se dérouler sous nos yeux cette enquête minutieuse, avec tous les éléments qui tombent en place et une logistique implacable de la part des adjoints de Montand. Bien entendu, l'oeuvre n'étant pas tirée d'un fait vécu, ce sont les scénaristes qu'il faut ici féliciter; Verneuil et son complice Henri Decoin ont fait du beau travail, et pas un seul moment l'intérêt ne faiblit. La cinématographie est exemplaire, à part quelques fautes de continuité - entre autres la présence de montage dans les images supposément filmées par une caméra amateur. Ennio Morricone signe ici une autre belle réussite de trame sonore.

La finale, aussi nihiliste que surprenante, vient sceller un film de conspiration d'excellente facture, qui nous rappelle que ce genre s'est un peu calmé après les années '70. L'oeuvre de Verneuil est toujours aussi percutante, même après toutes ces années.

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On m'a récemment conseillé le film coréen MEMORIES OF MURDER, un film de 2003 de Bong Joon-Ho. J'ai réalisé seulement bien après mon visionnement que ce mec était responsable du récent THE HOST, qui vient en fait d'arriver sur nos écrans canadiens. Il est aussi derrière BARKING DOGS NEVER BITE (2000), un autre succès-souvenir d'une édition passée du festival Fantasia.



On peut dire que MEMORIES... est un film rétro. L'action se déroule dans les années '80, alors que dans une petite ville non loin de Séoul sévit le premier tueur en série de l'histoire de la Corée. Ce dernier n'attaque que des jeunes filles portant du rouge, les baillonne avec leurs sous-vêtements, les viole et les tue. Les flics locaux chargés du dossier patinent, leurs méthodes laissent à désirer, et ils ont même recours à la torture pour tirer de pauvres innocents des confessions absurdes. L'arrivée d'un policier de Séoul, type un peu plus calme aux méthodes moins brutes, va faire significativement progresser l'enquête.



Le rythme est définitivement coréen, et il ne se passe pas toujours beaucoup de choses en plus de deux heures, mais ce film est un enchantement. On peut être agacé par quelques invraisemblances et par la brutalité générale des personnages, mais la cinématographie à couper le souffle et la beauté sereine des paysages ruraux de la Corée nous font rapidement oublier de tels détails. L'intrigue - apparememnt jamais résolue - nous hante bien après que le film soit terminé. Dans le même ordre d'idées, je ne suis pas certain que le film serait aussi efficace s'il n'était que pure fiction; le fait qu'il soit basé sur des événements ayant réellement eu lieu excuse ses quelques faiblesses.

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J'ai toujours eu un faible pour le trash, et ceux d'entre vous qui me lisent régulièrement le savent déjà. Aussi ai-je commencé à saliver quand je suis tombé, hier soir, tout à fait par hasard, sur la VHS d'un film que j'avais oublié posséder : KIDNAPPED COED. Also known as DATE WITH A KIDNAPPER, this 1976 Frederick R. Friedel - unfamous for his AXE flick in 1977 - movie is trashy, of course, and doesn't look very rehearsed. In fact, most of the scenes even look improvised on the spot.



It's about a guy named Eddie (Jack Canon, a forgotten actor with an unforgetable face) who kidnaps the daughter of a rich guy and plans on asking him for ransom. The girl, a shy redhead named Sandra (Leslie Rivers), doesn't seem to want to fight off her abduction, and is almost completely submissive, right away. Eddie takes her to a hotel room where they plan on waiting for a few days, but the front clerk and one of his friends break in the room and rape the girl. The kidnapper kills them both and drives away with his prize, and the two of them eventually start feeling more than animosity towards each other...

A classical "Stockholm syndrome" case, this love story is typically seventies : two city dwellers driving through big bad rural America in a huge blue gas guzzler. Eddie always seems to have to kill to get out of spiky situations, and his brainless coed seems to forget all about it in a matter of minutes. Nobody seems sane here; every character has a lust for blood - or for sex. The characters end up in love, and want to marry. They consider the ransom money a wedding present. The movie ends abruptly, after an awkward bar scene, where our two lovers want to "celebrate" their union. It looks as if Friedel ran out of ideas, or money for film, at that exact moment.

Leslie Rivers appeared as a guard in 1986, in REFORM SCHOOL GIRLS, and has done some work for television in the nineties. Jack Canon's rare other appearances include MAXIMUM OVERDRIVE in 1986, and WEEK-END AT BERNIE'S in 1989 ! Frederick Friedel remains a mystery, and I have a copy of AXE lying somewhere, so perhaps one of these days I'll get to watch it and give you an update about his strange case !

[Notez bien que le "switch" de langue est ici bien involontaire; je dois dormir au gaz. Comme je viens de rédiger tout ce segment en anglais bien malgré moi, je compte bien le laisser tel quel, histoire que vous vous rendiez bien compte de ce que peut occasionner un après-midi ensoleillé passé enfermé dans un bureau rempli à ras bord de retardés, en subissant de constantes interruptions de la part de clients complètement épatés. Le film KIDNAPPED COED est sorti en DVD chez Something Weird en programme double avec HITCH HIKE TO HELL (1977), que je n'ai pas vu. De mauvaises langues me disent que c'est mieux ainsi.]

All the clues lead to France

Weird series of coincidences, I have to admit. If France didn't exist, I probably wouldn't have any stories to tell today.



It all began somewhere at the Digitalism show, a couple of weeks ago, at Musée Juste Pour Rire, when I told a French girl that if things kept going like that, France wouldn't have any hot girls left in a couple of years. Have you noticed that all the pretty French girls are moving to Montreal ? It's a logical choice, after all : the cost of life is friendlier here, crime is pretty much non-existent, and we also speak french.

This is a migration trend that I welcome with open arms, of course. I have always been a violent advocate of social and ethnic mixity. A story like what happened in Hérouxville isn't surprising : among white bread pure-laines, how can you open your mind to other cultures ? Your reality is just that : who you are, and what you're living daily. Everything outside this "norm" is perceived by you, wether you like it or not, as abnormal. It can be somebody with a different skin color, or with different beliefs. It can also be "barbaric alimentary habits" or clothes that may look funny to you.

I remember my youth in Shawinigan, where rich anglo kids going to the impressive high school wouldn't mix with us poor frenchies from the "polyvalente", even if their lives depended on it. There was a language barrier, of course, but we were also from a different social class, and by some odd mimic pattern, kids would imitate their parents on the way to segregation. There was also a black kid - yes, only one - and he had to be pretty friendly if he wanted to survive. He lived close to my place so we naturally became friends; I eventually moved away and we lost contact. My father, a cop for the City of Shawinigan for more than 30 years, told me a couple of years ago that he had commited suicide.

But let's not venture towards the desperation brought by small town living to "different" people - that's a topic I already explored in depth in my never-published second completed novel, Les Rivaux, which to this day I still think sucks. It was refused only once - by no less than a Québec / Amériques reader - and it was more than enough.



So yes, french girls are generally hot - not hotter than girls from Québec, but almost on the same level. And they're all welcome to Montreal. I just hope I'll get the same welcome when I go to France. Yesterday, at Tokyo, I was quietly sipping a gin & tonic en bonne compagnie at The Joyride when Romeo Kardec got there to play. He was with Bruno, a French guy who just moved here on Monday. Bruno told me that it was his job that made him decide to switch countries. He's a helicopter pilot ! I've seen worse.

I have also watched lots of French movies lately, and I think it's time to comment on them, if you don't mind.

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René Manzor has directed his fair share of oddities (3615 CODE PERE NOEL, anyone ?) and the weirdest is probably LE PASSAGE. Released in 1986, it was unanimously trashed by critics, and if you ever see it you'll easily understand why. The intentions are noble, but the result isn't. We can only suppose, since Delon has contributed to the script, that it's one more proof of his unstoppable megalomania...



Jean Diaz (Delon) is a filmmaker. Not a "real" one, mind you - he draws. He releases animated movies filled with pointless violence and little else, to illustrate how much pain mankind is inflicting itself. He is presented as one of the most important artists of his era - yeah right - and seems to living the good life even though he has stopped working years ago to "protest the violence". He takes care of his irritating son, is divorced, and he is also randomly chosen by Death when the Grim Reaper asks its computer for a list of the 10 most important artists (of France, obviously, since the results display only French names). Death then orders its computer to make Diaz's car crash while he drives with his son.

You read right. Death smokes Gitanes, and spends way too much time in front of a huge 1986 computer. If it's not the best formula ever found to make sure a movie ages badly, then I don't know what is. The movie has its interesting moments, but is overall just bad, very bad. Delon argues with Death and reasons as if he was talking to a human being. The live action sequences are sometimes intersped with Jean Diaz's "work", which is pretty irritating if you're allergic to animated segments. Diaz's wife, portrayed by Christine Boisson, dives into hysteria from one second to the next, has a horrible haircut, and wears the most clownesque bourgeois clothes I had seen in a while.



Alain Manzor, René's son, plays David, Jean Diaz's son. He spends most of the movie being moody and walking around in an oversized sleeveless vest. He's the kind of kid that you might find cute and talented if he's your own son, but that objective individuals such as me will want to throw out the window.

*

I presently have a fixation on Claude Chabrol's oeuvres from the 80's, and my fascination doesn't seem to go away; it instead grows from one movie to the other. The latest I have seen, LE CRI DU HIBOU, from 1987, almost left me breathless.



This thriller is a Patricia Highsmith adaptation, and it's the kind of movie that, if seen in a proper context, will make you suffocate along the main character as the intrigue develops. Chabrol has been mastering the art of observing the small psychological details of life for what seems like ages, ever since his debut feature LE BEAU SERGE in 1958, and applies them pretty well to his characters. Though I haven't read Highsmith's story, the movie is apparently very faithful, and is a strong piece of the Chabrol puzzle, whatever anybody thinks.

Robert (Christophe Malavoy, chilling) is a professional drawer working on bird illustrations for an ornitology book in Vichy. He took the job following a separation with his wife Véronique (Virginie Thévenet) and has developed a nasty habit - every now and then, he spies on Juliette (Mathilda May, charming), a lonely and gorgeous young girl living in a secluded house. Juliette is about to get married to Patrick (Jacques Penot) but when she meets her stalker, her life changes for good, as well as Robert's, who ironically becomes stalked himself by the young lady.

Jean-Pierre Kalfon (LE DÉCLIC's unforgettable Dr. Fez) also appears as a quite unusual cop, and the beautiful score by Chabrol's son Matthieu couldn't be better. The parallels with birds is omnipresent, with Malavoy observing May like a hawk, hiding behind the trees, and Thévenet like a vulture feasting on her ex husband's bad luck. As the plot turns and surprises multiply, Robert seems trapped in an improbable funnel, driven to the bottom of a faith he can't escape. The ending is icy, a movement stopped short, a freezed frame of intense questionning. This movie is a puzzle, all the characters little pieces falling in their place, manipulated by an expert and diabolical craftsman whose dialogues and symbolic images all mirror another one, already passed or to come.



Mathilda May is a revelation here, her fragile face at times moving, at times just gracious and beautiful. LE CRI DU HIBOU was her eight film, and while other directors (as Tobe Hooper did in LIFEFORCE in '85) used her mainly for her sexy features, Chabrol gave her a real role, a character that suits her perfectly, where she does not have to take her clothes off to get noticed.

A Tuesday Night Out

It all began as a regular weekday night. I was about to watch Claude Chabrol's POULET AU VINAIGRE quietly. I wasn't planning on going out, even though Dan Berkson & James What were in town performing at Salon Daomé. I have been suffering from a weird bronchitis for more than a month, and every time I think it's gone it comes back. I wouldn't want to point any fingers in misleading directions but the fuckin' schizo weather probably doesn't help. I was terribly tired yesterday, and felt pretty bad. I lay down for a nap and couldn't even sleep.



So I got up around 11 to eat some ice cream - good for the throat, bad for the waist - and while I was feasting Mr. Bérêt called me. He felt like going out so I said : "Sure, come on over". He brought his trademark Troïka 60 ounces vodka bottle with him, and got to my place around midnight. We had a drink and took the 24 at 12:30, intending on getting off at the corner of Sherbrooke & St. Laurent and walk up. However, while waiting in front of the Sherbrooke metro station, some drunk jock in a sports car smashed the side of the bus. He then went to park in front of it and got out of his car while we ourselves were getting out of the bus. A crackhead appeared out of nowhere and asked the jock, running to the bus to talk to the driver, if he had 4$ !!

We entered the station. I was dead tired and Mr. Bérêt was drunk, so we chose the wrong direction and none of us noticed. We got out at Berri-UQAM and walked to the opposite tracks. Hugotron appeared in front of us as I was sipping on my Rev. We waited a while but finally were able to get out at Mont-Royal and walk to the Daomé, where there was already a nice bunch of people dancing.

The night went in a flash - the music was good, but I didn't feel like dancing. I chatted and slightly moved my butt, people offered me beer and I sure took my time to drink the bottles, abandonning them when they were piss warm. Mr. Bérêt disappeared, and around 3:15 I noticed that almost everybody was gone. I left too. On the sidewalk, we had drunk conversations, and finally Krystel took me home on her scooter whose motor kept on stalling. The air was freezing, but the ride felt nice.

*

Parties are fun to attend, and sometimes cinema has tried to emulate their euphoria on the big screen. We could almost say it's the case with Walter Hill's 1984 fun-ride STREETS OF FIRE. Subtitled "A Rock n' Roll Fable", its tagline is "Tonight is what it means to be young". The movie could almost be a musical, but it remains a fast-paced, feel good urban adventure in an anachronistic world very much inspired by the 80's "new romanticism".



Ellen Aim (Diane Lane), a singer not unlike Stevie Nicks, is kidnapped while giving a performance in a small seedy town populated by rockabillys and bikers. The local biker gang, the Bombers, led by Willem Dafoe, are the ones responsible for the kidnapping. A mercenary named Tom Cody (Michael Paré), who also happens to be Ellen Aim's ex, is called on to rescue her, and will go on a mission with his newfound lesbian sidekick McCoy (Amy Madigan) and Ellen's manager (Rick Moranis). Fights will burst out, and flames will rise up in the streets.

It came to me as a major surprise that I had never seen this flick before. For various reasons :

1 - I am obsessed with the eighties;
2 - I pretty much adore Willem Dafoe;
3 - I'm a tender rocker;
4 - I love bikers movies.



...and I wasn't disappointed. STREETS OF FIRE is an epic studio movie, a weird mix of rock culture, eighties kitsch, and proposes a glossy image of a typical industrial American city with diners, rock clubs and understanding policemen. The fight scenes are over-the-top, and Michael Paré must have been the coolest anti-hero on the block back in the days; he stands there with his working-class pants, his suspenders and his wife-beater, hair in the wind, cigarette sending smoke in his eyes. It was an era of glorious bar binges, brawls with rockabilly gangs, and the mighty Dafoe is the ultimate un-credible bad guy : he walks around with big guys dressed in leather pants, wears more makeup than his female counterparts, and wears the gayest outfits you've ever seen [in fact, as a side note, since blogs don't allow footnotes, I once went to Mr. Hairdresser's birthday party around 2002, and he had invited a guy he was bangin' at the time. The guy showed up, to everybody's embarassment, dressed in a shiny leather overalls, and nothing else, bare torso & all. I told myself that I had never seen a cheesiest outfit and never would again, but how wrong was I - because Willem wears exactly the same one in pretty much the first half of this movie].

Michael Paré is a bad-ass, yes, but the visuals are also to blame for the movie's over-the-top feel : motorcycles who are shot at litterally EXPLODE; the cars roar all the time; there's a constant animosity between Moranis & Paré, and "never a dull moment". What can I say about the soundtrack that hasn't been said before ? If you don't like classic rock, it could be slightly annoying to you, but in the context of the movie it's quite appropriated. Bands like Fire Inc. and The Blasters offer nice contributions, and the Ry Cooder score does a pretty decent job.



Dafoe was just starting his carreer back then, and appeared as a money-laundering villain the next year in William Friedkin's TO LIVE & DIE IN L.A. Director Walter Hill, after his peak at the beginning of the 80's, made some decent movies, among which figure westerns WILD BILL (1995) and the Kurosawa remake LAST MAN STANDING (1996) with Bruce Willis. Which probably, eventually, lead him to direct an episode of DEADWOOD in 2004, but that's just another story.

*

I recently stumbled upon an excellent web page ("Critical Condition", at http://www.critcononline.com/video_companies_cover_art.htm) detailing numerous VHS distributors of the 80's, and I spent quite a lot of time just browsing the galleries, wasting entire hours just staring at the cover arts of obscure releases. While doing so, I realised that I possessed - and used to possess - quite a large number of these tapes, including Academy Video's ENDPLAY. This one was given to me at the end of the millenium by a fellow trader who used to go by the name Baron Blood, referencing a very entertaining Mario Bava classic. ENDPLAY wasn't that far on my VHS shelves, so I decided to give it a chance and pop it in.



My first disappointment was that it wasn't an American exploitation piece from the 80's about teenage hitchikers getting sliced, as the box suggested. It was an almost monastic Australian thriller from 1976, directed by Tim Burstall. In which a pretty boy named Mark (John Waters - not the one we know) is believed to have disposed of the body of a "blonde nympho" he picked up while driving to visit his brother Robert (George Mallaby, who also appeared in THE SPY WHO LOVED ME in 1977), a crippled in a wheelchair.

Believe me, there's not much going on. Then it slowly hits you. The storyline is told from a viewpoint that leads you to falsely assume some beliefs that may not be entirely true... The novel aspect of the script's construction is only revealed towards the end, making us "get" why we waited until the end to make any judgement. The movie verges on the huis clos, taking place almost entirely in Robert's house. The few scenes happening in the "outside world" are filmed in such a bizarre way that they lend the ensemble a surrealistic feel.

This movie is apparently a classic in Australia, and I can understand why; however, thanks to the false marketing by Academy Video, some of my expectations were not exactly fulfilled. Better luck next time !

200

Global Warming has decided to make an exception in his eternal quest of... warming up the earth. In a Montreal Times article titled Global Warming avoids Canada, he is quoted as telling the Associated Press, earlier yesterday, that : "Canadians are too boring. Why should I care about them and warm their asses up ?". Therefore, it has been officially announced that Global Warming will not be granted a Canadian visa, and will never be able to set foot in our country. Airport personel is nervous, and the borders are closely watched. Grey skies are expected to last forever from now on, and we can forget about a suntan, or the simple idea of summer. Just like in any regular Canadian movie.



I've read somewhere that when a blog regularly does topics about the weather, it's gone bad. Have I reached my expiration date ? Have I "jumped the shark" ? You be the judge. I may have lost my edge at the same time I was losing my abs under a cake & ice cream coating around the waist, but I have not lost my will for irreverence. And in fact this post, that I'm typing right now, will be my 200th. In less than two years.

Those of you who were there in the beginning probably noticed how much the blog has changed. I first started it as a kind of "diary" of my sexual encounters and general experiences with serial dating. Then I met Miss Bijoux, and calmed down. I've been using Porn Science mainly to keep tabs, since then, on the movies I see, and the general state of mayhem my life is in. And you know damn well that all this could change at the blink of an eye. My eye.

I have a confession to make. Everybody gets on my nerves today. I'm at work, at the office. I'm in this kind of monastic, quiet mood required to think, and I have a shitload of articles to finish, as I may already have written right here, and there are girls all around me screaming their lungs out. It's not even hysteria, it's just the way they are : they run around and talk really loudly about work, and I'm pretty sure that they consume every calory of their more than generous meals while they're here. Then they go home to their husbands or boyfriends, and are too exhausted to do anything besides couch potatin' and watching TV. Why they invest the best of their day in such a trivial thing as "work", I'll never get it. When your employer does the minimum for you, what does he expect ?



This is my philosophy on jobs that are not "carreers". If you're there mainly to pay your bills, don't overdo it. It might look suspect to people like me.

I do what I'm asked to do, and I never step over the line. I don't take initiatives. I don't go helping out other departments when I have less stuff on my agenda. Corporate behaviour sickens me to the point of almost puking. I believe in success, but I don't think that climbing the corporate ladder without sacrificing your soul is possible anymore. I'm not the type of guy to say "Good stuff !" and pat people I hate on the back in the elevator on the way to the food court. I will not dress in a suit and spend 16 hours a day in my office, surrounded by assholes with no life. And I don't think that personal accomplishment can be achieved via a faceless business empire.

I strongly believe that, if you have a strong personality and are intellectually autonomous, you have to find your way on your own. Go out there and do it.

And while you're at it, please, keep your voice at a reasonable level.