Porn Science

La convergence des médias

2009-01-19T23:10:00.002-05:00

...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

2007-09-26T17:12:00.000-05:00

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

2007-08-30T17:00:00.000-05:00

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

2007-08-24T16:43:00.000-05:00

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

2007-05-30T18:20:00.000-05:00

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

2007-05-28T19:06:00.000-05:00

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

2007-05-26T16:22:00.000-05:00

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

2007-05-12T15:53:00.000-05:00

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

2007-05-05T16:55:00.000-05:00

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.

2007-04-28T16:09:00.000-05:00

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

2007-04-24T16:50:00.000-05:00

"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

2007-04-21T13:02:00.000-05:00

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

2007-04-18T18:07:00.000-05:00

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 !

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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

2007-04-17T13:46:00.000-05:00

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

2007-04-14T15:43:00.000-05:00

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 !

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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

2007-04-13T17:14:00.000-05:00

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.

*

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

2007-04-11T18:17:00.000-05:00

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

2007-04-07T16:04:00.000-05:00

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.

*

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

2007-03-28T18:35:00.000-05:00

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

2007-03-27T15:53:00.000-05:00

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.

Horrified

2007-03-24T17:39:00.001-05:00

Everybody loves horror, it would seem. Most people in my immediate emotional surroundings are horror fans, or can at least stomach a good old gory movie from time to time. We do have snobs, who'll only be interested in art house and foreign films, but I like to stay balanced. I like my movies as visceral as they can be social. There's a time for everything, and I'm interested by a very broad range of types of "entertainment". I of course draw the line at reality. Recently discussing with a good friend of mine - and fellow blogger - I found out that I wasn't the only one sickened by the view of real violence. Be it Nick Berg's beheading on the net or just somebody accidentally cutting his finger on tape, I don't like the sounds or the view of it. As long as it's fiction, even if it comes from a sick mind, it stays in the realm of the imaginary.

An article from today's New York Times drew my attention. Written by Michael Cieply and titled "Government to Take a Hard Look at Horror", it mentions that Hollywood's marketers don't always have a clear conscience when the time comes to aim their ads to underage kids. And that ads of studios not part of the M.P.A.A. aren't regulated. Hence, kids coming home from school can see huge banners for upcoming movies such as THE REAPING, PERFECT STRANGER and CAPTIVITY.

Trailers for these films also play on TV and some people think that children shouldn't be exposed to them. Let me tell you something.

I am not a particularly twisted guy, but I like my horror movies uncensored. I don't mind the violence, when it is in tune with the story. I just don't like it when brutality is glorified, as if it was noble of some characters to punch people to death. Recent examples include BON COP BAD COP and CRANK. I think that some youngsters out there are not very well equiped, judgement-wise, and can be influenced. And if violence is spread on daytime TV and contextualised as "normal", it can become a problem, especially when coupled to lax gun laws in the US. Guns don't kill people, people do. True to a certain extent. But if guns were hard to put your hands on, you'd have some time to think twice before pulling the trigger and blowing your landlord's brains off during a heated argument.

During most of my youth I have willingly been exposed to horror movies, sometimes indirectly. Some of my babysitters were gorehounds, and sometimes my little brother and me were left unsupervised in front of the TV during some afternoons where some channels were showing movies such as David Cronenberg's RABID. I had a cousin working in a Nicolet video rental store, and when we'd frequently visit her at work, riding in her then boyfriend's Sirocco, I spent most of my time staring at the boxes displayed on the upper shelves, out of children's reach, where horror and porn was stored.

A new bill is being studied right now, and if adopted would allow some new guidelines on violence in films. Taming them down, of course. There is already a similar hypocrisy going on with these studios : in order to avoid the "R" rating, some of them are cutting down movie scenes upon release. Then, when the movie is released on DVD, the scenes are put back on and it's marked as "unrated". Therefore, those of us blessed with impatience see a "cut" movie when they go out with their dates to scare their pants off.

Horror movies are here to stay, and wether you like the genre or not, trying to impose moral barriers will not make it disappear. Movies like the SAW trilogy might be gory and hard to stomach for some, but nothing matches the grotesque dismemberments of daily news. Irony ?

Baboul Hair Pullin'

2007-03-23T17:15:00.000-05:00

A subject close to my heart is discussed in this month's Walrus (April edition). This Canadian magazine never fails to impress me with its broad range of topics & the quality of its articles, and I rarely mention what I'm reading on the bus, so there you go.

On top of an article about BC's Pine Beetle, slowly annihilating our forests, there's an article by John Lorinc about cognitive overload, Driven to Distraction. Cognitive science specialists have apparently found out that multi-tasking and being constantly interrupted by a never-ending flow of information make it more difficult for us to think for a long time, shortening our focus. If we constantly receive information and don't take enough time to "process" it, or think it through, our brain doesn't "record". Or, in Lorinc's words : "When someone is bombarded by data, the executive processor doesn't have the time or the resources to encode everything and starts to show signs of fatigue."

Another passage states that "Email for many people has become an oppressive feature of work life. MySpace, YouTube, chat rooms, and the blogosphere, for all their virtues as new mediums of political debate and cultural activity, have an amazing ability to suck up time."

Do I need to say I highly recommend this to y'all ?

Another surprising article, this time in the Atlantic - also the April edition - is about the Darfur genocide. According to Stephan Faris, global warming would have a bigger responsibility in the conflict than ethnic hatred !

This sounds so refreshing that I'll have to read it before writing about it any further. And since I'm pretty sauced right now, being hung over at work & all, I'll get back to you tomorrow in a finer shape.

Eat Your Emotions

2007-03-21T19:17:00.000-05:00

I'm eating a spinach cream soup and pretending nothing's happening to the world. I just took a look at Meteomedia's website and even though it will probably rain all day, it is predicted that the weather will reach 12 degrees. Not bad for my day off. I wouldn't lie to y'all if I told you I needed a break. Most of my co-workers would agree. I stay calm on the phone at all times, but as soon as our customers are gone, let's just say I'm fast on the bitch switch. Sleeping long hours is already helping. But a week or two in the sun wouldn't hurt.

Speaking of which, I'll be off to California for a whole month this summer. From July 16th to August 13th, I will be harvesting lavender and living the good life on a farm in Los Gatos, near San José. Horseback riding, climbing redwoods, cruising around the coast... It will be a much needed month off, the first I will take since 2000. My holidays since then have mostly been bad jokes, spent in Montreal doing exactly what I'm doing all year long. I know I'll miss the Daft Punk show at Bell Centre, but they're playing in Berkeley at the end of July so I'll be there. And I will, of course, let you know what's going on from time to time, as I plan on bringing my laptop with me.

*

Hookers are making "friends requests" on my MySpace page. It's not a recent trend but it's rather annoying. If you go on their profiles, you are magically redirected towards some porn pages. How lame. If I want to look at online porn, I don't need a spammer to tell me WHEN to do it...

*

In Miami on Monday, a drunk police officer named Michael Ragusa - yes, same name as one of the firefighters who perished in the World Trade Center on 9/11 - stopped his patrol car (he was off duty) near a 31 years old woman walking home from her job, around 5 AM. He called her "beautiful" and got her to approach the car, and when she did, he grabbed her arm and forced her inside. With the lady still on his lap, he drove to a secluded area and proceeded to grope her and take her pants off. He was about to rape her when she told him she had a venereal disease.

That stopped him short. She was permitted to put her pants back and the policeman drove her home. Just before letting her go, he asked her for her phone number. She gave it to him, and he told her he'd like to see her again. He sent her a text message 20 minutes after she got out of his car, while she was telling her uncle about her little "adventure". Later during the day, Ragusa called her again, inviting her to lunch.

At that point, the Miami police was made aware of its member's inconduct, and Ragusa was promptly arrested, and relieved of duty.

Source : The Miami Herald.

*

Freddie Francis is dead. He died leaving behind him an impressive body of work. A cinematographer on films such as David Lynch's THE ELEPHANT MAN (1980) and Martin Scorcese's CAPE FEAR (1991), he was first and foremost a director, deeply invested in Britain's genre cinema industry. Beginning his directing carreer with an uncredited involvement in THE DAY OF THE TRIFFIDS in 1962, he would go on to pursue an impressive stint of b-movies, including classics such as DR. TERROR'S HOUSE OF HORRORS (1965, reuniting an impressive cast comprised of Peter Cushing, Christopher Lee and Donald Pleasance) and the Hammer's DRACULA HAS RISEN FROM THE GRAVE (1968).

While he died before I had the chance of watching his productions, it is still a great loss that follows a long series of losts. The men who have shaped the b-movie industry of Europe in the sixties and seventies are falling like flies. R.I.P.

Keepin' Busy With Safari Movies

2007-03-20T17:00:00.000-05:00

I am in the process of writing an article about safari movies, a rather weird sub-genre, for Detroit's underground cinema magazine Cashiers du Cinemart. My relationship with Mike White, the editor in chief, goes a long way. We "met" back in the days where he was still a pretty big tape trader, looking for rare movies and often ending up with washed out, 14th generation copies of gems we all thought lost - or undistributed. We were all doing it. Buying a VHS 20-tapes pack a week, and mailing away.

I had access to a mythic place at the time : the basement of St-Eustache's Vidéogie rental store. I would go there every week with my friend Trucker G, and lurk in the darkness of the basement for hours, looking at the never-ending stashes of tapes among which you could find the most surprising and rare threats. I would rent 7 movies a week - one for each day - and I was allowed to keep 'em for seven days for the friendly price of 7.77$. I eventually became friends with Marc, the manager, because every time I would climb up the stairs back to everyday life, covered in spiderwebs, my treasure under the arm, he would have to recreate the movie titles in his system and put barcodes on the tapes - most of these movies had not been rented in more than ten years.

Long after I stopped going there, not because I had rented everything I wanted, but mostly because Trucker G was too busy to give me rides, Marc would come to see me in Laval, where I lived, and bring me gifts he would "borrow" from the huge collection his employer didn't care about : Joe de Palmer porn rarities, THE MONK with Franco Nero, and Joe d'Amato's Canadian-shot BILL CORMACK LE FÉDÉRÉ, starring Fabio Testi, and in which the villain is named "Cariboo".

Mike White was always on the lookout for rare titles too, so we eventually hooked up on the web and started trading tapes by mail. He didn't care about ending up with French dubbed versions of the movies he seeked, and I didn't mind his generosity - he was one of the first folks out there to buy a DVD burner and to send digitalised versions of VHS tapes on convenient DVD-Rs, and received only tapes in return.

Right now, he is putting up the 15th issue of the Cashiers and my article needs to be sent to him by April 1st. I usually don't have any problems with deadlines, and I'm pretty confident I'll make in right on time, but there are still a few things I need to tune up. Some of the movies I have watched a few months ago are a blur now, so I'll need to run them at full speed in my VCR and take notes. I also haven't watched Hong Kong's CRAZY SAFARI yet and can't bring myself to finish the impossibly boring Bitto Albertini no-brainer THREE SUPERMEN IN THE JUNGLE.

I also forgot to include CANNIBAL WOMEN IN THE ADVOCADO JUNGLE OF DEATH, a JF Lawton-directed Shannon Tweed vehicle. I still have the tape lying somewhere - I remember beginning to watch it, and stopping because I was falling asleep. I also couldn't find Michele Lupo's AFRICA EXPRESS (1975), some kind of "prequel" to Duccio Tessari's SAFARI EXPRESS (1976). I am under the strong impression that both movies were shot back-to-back but released separately, as they feature the same cast (down to the monkey !), and pretty much the same synopsis.

On top of this rather peculiar assignment - that I personally assigned to myself, that's the beauty of working with Mike White - I also have my debut reviews to write for Contamination, the new Montreal french language free quarterly magazine about genre cinema. That would include Kevin VanHook's DEATH ROW, a TV movie called DEAD & DEADER, with Dean Cain, and the recently released ANIMAL. Did I mention the end of my semester that's getting nearer ? So yeah, I might be burned out pretty soon, after all.

*

The year it was made was unclear on the VHS sleeve of BABY LOVE, this demented Alastair Reid flick. The VHS release date was mentioned, as well as 1965 and 1974 for various copyrights. Turns out that it was made in 1968, making it almost more daring than Joël Séria's MAIS NE NOUS DÉLIVREZ PAS DU MAL. One thing's for sure - it couldn't be released nowadays, in any format.

It was jailbait Linda Hayden's first movie, and she was 15 at the time. She is also supposed to be 15 in the plot. And she's one fine-looking mama. The movie works pretty well at manipulating the viewer, trying to excite him with eroticism and then turning the wheels around to throw guilt in his face. Although her last serious role dates back to the BOYS FROM BRAZIL adaptation of Ira Levin's book by Franklin J. Schaffner, also starring Gregory Peck, she has been active in television series until '97, when she disappeared from the map. However, between BABY LOVE in '68 and THE BOYS... in '78, she has appeared in enough movies to keep you busy for a while.

The story is reminiscent of Pasolini's TEOREMA (released the same year, and loosely based on Nabokov's LOLITA) and of Max Pécas' LES MILLE ET UNE PERVERSIONS DE FÉLICIA (1975), in which Béatrice Harnois, as Félicia, fucks up a couple's life beyond repair by seducing them all. While I haven't yet seen TEOREMA - nor its 1993 remake SIX DEGREES OF SEPARATION, directed by Fred Schepisi and starring none else than... Will Smith, apparently inspired by a true story and a guy named David Hampton - I can safely assume that its themes are deeper than those of BABY LOVE, a rather unsuccessful attempt at showing teen skin with moral reasons.

Luci, quite litterally a young slut, loses her mother one grey afternoon, coming home from school to find her in the bath with sliced wrists. The suicide note asks her former lover, a middle class journalist called Robert (Keith Barron of 1976's AT THE EARTH CORE), to take care of Luci. Robert has a beautiful wife (Ann Lynn, who appeared in STRIP TEASE MURDER in 1961 and has done a lot of TV work since then) and a son, and they immediately adopt Luci as a member of the family. Luci, however, will soon use her tight body and innocent looks to seduce 'em all, and will eventually be a menace to their relationships.

The story is interesting enough, and it's funny to wait & see who will fall for Luci, and who will resist. It's also a decent enough portrait of the typical British middle class family, complete with heavy drinking and flacid sleazyness. It would feel like a TV movie if all the nudity was cut off, but then again, the subject matter is quite heavy and the flick is pretty daring for its time.

*

I have finally fell victim to BON COP BAD COP. I resisted to its premiere at Fantasia last year, to its original theatrical release, and to the DVD. But when I saw that the monster had crawled its way to ICI's top 20 of the best made-in-Québec films ever, I almost fell off my chair. Either my flair was dead or something was up. I decided to check it out for myself.

Éric Canuel, the director, introduces the movie. He seems pretty proud. He mentions the extras, and then the Éric Lapointe-penned song "Tattoo", written specifically for the movie, whose video is also featured. My nausea started then. But rest assured, it didn't last long.

Apart from the first scene of the movie, which is filmed in such a shaking way that your eyes can't seem to focus - probably intentional, since it's about a guy waking up from some kind of drug-induced stupor while being tattooed in a dark room by a villain wearing a hockey mask - the rest is pretty flawless, from a technical point of view. Grim colors, lots of filters, and a gorgeous cinematography to booth. The movie itself is an attempt at creating the perfect bilingual buddy movie, while making the big bucks with two markets at once : english and french speaking canadians. I don't see how it could be relevant to anyone outside of Canada, because they wouldn't get 90% of the jokes.

David Bouchard (humorist turned comedian Patrick Huard) and Martin Ward (THE INSIDER'S Colm Feore) are two cops, from Quebec and Ontario respectively, who are reunited on a case when a victim is dropped from a helicopter and lands directly on the "Welcome to Ontario" sign. Since the body is split in two, the case is shared, so they reluctantly team up and try to find a weird killer who eliminates corporate players in the hockey industry.

I don't think that there's a real respect of police procedures here, as these two guys basically do what they want. They beat up suspects, burn down evidence, and basically behave like wild animals, resorting to cartoonesque violence that's worrysome in that kind of "family" entertainment. There is some sex and a lot of violence, and hockey jokes and references that many people won't get - including me. However, the players here are strong; HU$TLE's Sarain Boylan appears as Martin Ward's slutty sister; humorist Louis-José Houde plays a funny motormouth coroner; Pierre Lebeau an improbable police chief; Nanette Workman cameos as a ballet teacher; and finally the breath taking Lucie Laurier poses as Huard's ex wife, with which the lucky bastard still lives. The breast jokes aren't spared and we love it like that.

We can't say that time doesn't fly when watching this movie - after all, the rythm's been ameliorated by various cuts, and the team behind it all is comprised of seasoned pros. Éric Canuel has steadily turned out action-packed comedies and dramas since 2001 (LA LOI DU COCHON was his first full length feature) and Patrick Huard does more acting these days than stand up comedy, after debuting in 1997 in Claude Fournier's J'EN SUIS !. You knew you wouldn't find a fine intellectual analysis of the Ontario / Québec relationships when this movie was made, so why expect more ?

Shivering in the Sun

2007-03-17T15:36:00.000-05:00

My itinerary to work has been screwed by heavy construction on Saint-Laurent. I am trying to go from Papineau to McGill College, on Sherbrooke all the way, and this stretch of road usually takes about 20 minutes to accomplish by bus, and 10 minutes when biking. These days, it's more like 30 minutes, because there's only one lane on Sherbrooke at the corner of the Main.

What's up, grey Montreal ? I haven't seen the sunshine since... I don't know when. I sleep in my living room these days, among plants and audio-visual equipment, and my plants are the only ones complaining. Oh, and my back hurts too. I thought Spring was imminent... how wrong was I. The snow that fell during the night + the strong winds aren't making my life any easier. On April 1st I plan on giving up traveling with the STM and using my bike, but its direction is screwed, and even if I have it repaired, will I be willing to jump on it every day if it's minus 10 and snowy all the time ?

*

I feel like crap having to read Canadian magazines these days. In this month's Maisonneuve, there's a photographic report on a beach in Bangladesh where most of the world's oil tankers are dismantled. Dismantled by men in flip flops, with no security equipment and no proper training. And by writing "men", I'm being generous since children as young as 10 are also working on the premises. They die a lot, too, of course. And there's a picture of 16 years old Abdul Kashem, who lost his right arm at the elbow and his right leg at the knee when a large steel plate fell and hit him while he was working.

This week's MacLean's cover, meanwhile, features a soldier standing on one leg, with a cane, under the title "Coming Home", of course refering to the Afghanistan mission. Bombings, suicide missions and the numerous landmines buried everywhere are making ravages on the troops. And I think that losing a limb is one of my greatest phobias. Hence the nauseating effect that these pictures have on me. I remember stumbling upon a picture of a limbless girl on Rotten.com, back in the days. Someone had deposited her in front of a white wall and there she was, powerless, smiling at the camera, with no arms and no legs.

I could always close the browser, but the image would never again be erased from my memory.

*

WHO KILLED MARY WHAT'S 'ER NAME ? That's a question as valid as any. And that's a question that Mickey (Red Buttons), an ex boxer with diabetes, asks himself when he gets out of the hospital and reads a small article about the killing of a Greenwich Village prostitute that nobody cares about. He'll start investigating about the crime and will soon implicate his own daughter in the affair. They'll go family-style to solve the mystery, and will encounter many unfriendly New York souls on their way to the truth.

Part of the seventies wave of movies with odd questions as titles, this 1971 noir film, directed by Ernest Pintoff (mainly a television director with credits in, among others, episodes of "Ellery Queen" and "The Dukes of Hazzard") left me with a strange impression. As if it was a children's movie with adult themes. The explanations are emphasized, there's a good-natured team of humorous do-gooders on the job, and lead Red Buttons is a former stand-up comic who does his best to let his redhead charms get in the way.

Bad acting is never too far, and the campy Malthus (played by Dick Anthony Williams, of THE MACK and SLAUGHTER'S BIG RIP-OFF fame) wins the medal of grotesque as the junkie leader of a sect of old ladies beating up prostitutes. Also worthy of mention is Mickey's daughter, played by the lovely Alice Playten, who would go on to become a National Lampoon regular. Also marketed as Death of a Hooker on the VHS market of the eighties, this one's a nice forgotten flick that has its merits, and that is actually more fun than burden.

*

FORMULA 51 is the classic case of a Hong Kong director coming to Hollywood to inject some visual flair and freshness to an action-packed thriller. Ronny Yu, best known for his entries in the classic American horror franchises (BRIDE OF CHUCKY in 1998, FREDDY VS JASON in 2003) and his punchy visual style, has worked on FEARLESS with Jet Li in 2006, and is on his way to direct a live action version of the manga BLOOD : THE LAST VAMPIRE.

This seldom seen blockbuster from 2001, shot in the UK, surfs on the trend of British gangster flicks and features a commentary on the modern drug scene. Samuel Jackson, a chemist, has come up with a drug that is 51 times more powerful than heroin, cocaine & ecstasy combined. It's not explained how you can socially behave (or even avoid to die) while being high on it, though. So everybody's interested in buying the formula from Sam. He wipes off his lab in L.A. during a drug meeting, but his fat-assed boss the Lizard (Meat Loaf) manages to survive, and send a cute contract killer (Emily Mortimer, the charming housewife of Woody Allen's MATCH POINT) after him. Jackson, meanwhile, travels to the UK to sell his formula and is greeted at the airport by a small time bloke called Felix DeSousa (hilariously played by Robert Carlyle). What follow is a ride through the usual imaginary landscapes of Hollywood, where the morals are those of a video game and the cartoonesque violence as unrealistic as shocking.

In Hollywood, where you can't see a nipple but showing buckets of blood is acceptable, the rules of the game are twisted. And so is this movie : it almost promotes drug use, in a weirdly hallucinating way. There is a scene where Sam Jackson, in the middle of a huge club, stands on a sub-woofer with his hands full of pills and throws them at an ecstatic crowd.

As doubtful as it is, in the end it's pretty entertaining, but equally forgettable.

*

A very similar movie in tone, Mark Neveldine and Brian Taylor's CRANK (2006) goes one step further in the extreme. It is the cinematic equivalent of an electric shock to the testicles administered by a Suicide Girl in black stockings while being strapped to an ice cold waterbed while high on GHB.

Neveldine & Taylor are mainly music video artists, and it shows in the way they directed this joint. The action is efficient, straight to the point, and most surprisingly non stop. The basics are quite simple : Jason Staham plays Chev, a contract killer who has been poisoned by a chinese substance that will kill him if his heart beats at a normal speed for more than a few minutes. He learns this upon waking up, feeling like shit. He has less than an hour to live if he doesn't run on adrenaline. And all he wants to do is find out who poisoned him & why, and kill the responsibles.

It's the perfect excuse for action ! And it's quite funny to see Staham run around like crazy, drink Red Bull like it's water, and generally act like a sped-up madman on the lose. His advancing state of decrepitude is almost painful to see, and I'm pretty sure you know a few meth-heads who share a few similarities with his vein-poppin', animalistic behaviour. He starts a rampage in L.A. that will only stop with his death, if it ever occurs. He tries all sorts of things : drugs, fights, gunfights, high speed cruising in his sports car, screwing his girlfriend in public, etc... Amy Smart, playing his girlfriend, does everything she can to contradict her last name : she's the dumbest blonde you've seen in a long time. While running away from a gunfight, she thinks about her birth control pills; while her boyfriend breaks some arms and kills some mafia guys who are after him, she doesn't notice a thing and puts on lip gloss. She ain't so smart, but she's smoking hot.

Other players include Dwight Yoakam, posing as Staham's doctor, a corrupt and funny substance-abusing gambler who enjoys the company of hookers. Pretty much everybody else is cartoonish, from the latino gangsters to the mafia blokes chasing after the main man. I have yet to see a movie as spastic, where you can't even catch up your breath, and if it's not CRANK's only claim to fame, it's its best one for sure.

*

Michael Radford, after directing IL POSTINO in 1994, got lost in transit. I haven't yet seen his drama about L.A. strippers, DANCING AT THE BLUE IGUANA (2000), but I have just seen B. MONKEY and I am rather puzzled. It's a UK / Italy / USA co-production, and it's set in London.

It is the story of Alan (Jared Harris), a quiet schoolteacher, who falls in love at first sight with Beatrice (Asia Argento), an armed robber who also goes by the name of B. Monkey, when he sees her at the pub. He'll do everything he can to attract her attention, and they'll eventually start a fling. Beatrice's criminal friends, Bruno (Jonathan Rhys Meyers) and Paul (Rupert Everett), kind of get in the way of the relationship with their criminal connections, and soon it's no use hiding from the rabid mob bosses who are after them.

Funny there should be a "B" in the title, because this is a B movie, whatever its cast thinks about it. From the plot to the acting, everything is pretty average, and nothing we haven't seen before. I'll be honest : the main reason I sat through it is Asia. Since I was about 18 I have made plans to marry her and I'll never let go. To those of you, out there, who like her many charms, I have only one advice : see this movie.

Other than that, we get what's expected : Everett brooding, in a fashion almost similar to his role in Michele Soavi's 1994 masterpiece DELLAMORTE DELLAMORE; music straight out of the 90's that didn't really aged well (Portishead anybody ?), and an idyllic but cliché'd vision of the English countryside. It's not completely a waste of time, but it's close.

*

What would life be without Italian cinema ? Whenever you've had it with the unsubtle Hollywood marketing and various "hommages" that unshamefully steal from past oeuvres, you turn your head towards the seventies and you find something refreshing. This week, I have watched a seldom known cop thriller directed by Stelvio Massi, Squadra Volante, a movie that was recently released on DVD by No Shame under the title EMERGENCY SQUAD.

In it, Interpol inspector Tommaso Ravelli (Tomàs Milian) is still looking for his wife's killer after five years. She was hit by stray bullets fired by the Marseillese's (Gastone Moschin) machine gun. The Marseillese, meanwhile, hides with his crime buddies after a hit where they stole a big stash of Liras, killing a cop in the process. The criminals are trapped in an appartment and fight over small matters, but end up greedily killing each others. Ravalli is in the meantime getting closer to them...

The budget of this thriller appears modest, but the cinematography, script and actors all make up for it. The small italian towns through which the chases take place are all very charming. The Marseillese's buddies include Ray Lovelock as Rino, a marxist philosopher; Guido Leontini as Cranium, one of the most peculiar faces in Italian b-movies, and also one of its most annoying performers (he also appears in LA BANDA DEL GOBBO (1978), where Tomàs Milian performs a double role as two brothers); Mario Carotenuto, an omnipresent face in cop thrillers of the era, who strangely ressembles Jean Lapointe; and the always sexy Stefania Casini as the Marseillese's girlfriend.

Tomàs Milian seems rather nonchalant, walking through his scenes like a zombie, and it can disappoint; his looks are however as good as always and we can only interpret his apathy as "acting like a mournful guy". Stelvio Cipriani's music is funky, of course, but the best he's done. It was one of Stelvio Massi's first features and it's already worthy of mention; he would go on to direct a series of high quality cop thrillers until he completely lost his judgement, after a few motocross movies (!!!) starring Fabio testi at the end of the 70's.

I almost was a sex columnist

2007-03-14T13:18:00.000-05:00

I got an email from a friend about a magazine I won't name looking for a new sex columnist. Aware of my researches in the "field" - chronicled on this blog during the summer of '05 - and my interest in getting a paying gig as a writer, she sent it to me, hoping I would apply. I did, and was contacted & asked to write a sample article about "performance". The instructions were vague, so I basically wrote what I felt like writing. I was later told that the editorial team absolutely wanted the sex columnist to be a girl, perhaps to stick to the usual practice of papers such as the Mirror and Hour. So here's the unpublished piece.

I might be a depraved, oversexed fiend, and an obsessed one-track mind loaded with testosterone, but at least I know how to perform. Sort of. Here’s a public confession : when I first initiate an intimate encounter with a new girl, I always have some trouble getting it up. And booze doesn’t help. It might be a pretty good panty remover, but vodka sure isn’t Viagra.

With performance often comes anxiety, and once it's there, you're screwed. Not your partner. Ironic that the thought of not performing so often prevents you from actually achieving something, isn't it ? An erection can be so ephemeral, so fragile, almost like a porn star candle in the wind. We all know what happens to the hardest studs once the camera starts rolling : they turn from steel to butter in a matter of seconds.

Far from porn, in the confort of your own bed, what could possibly make it difficult to use your sexual skills to their maximum effect ? Could it be the fear of what this new « partner » will tell her friends as soon as she walks out of your place the following morning ? The authentic eagerness to explore a new body ? Afraid of being judged unjustly, or of not getting a second chance ? With all the one-night stands and multiple sex partners of our current urbanity, I have to say the competition is fierce.

A local saying suggests that « if you can’t get laid in Montreal 15 minutes after getting out of your plane, there’s something wrong with you ». Does this saying encourage flirting with taxi drivers or engaging in bathroom sex with complete strangers at the Pierre-Elliot Trudeau airport ?

Peer pressure and modern legends often add up to the possible psychological burden you might find yourself faced with, should you be at the beginning of your sexual awakening. I remember my first few rounds of « making out », under a bridge in Shawinigan. Having dozed through most of my sex education courses at school, and never having seen any pornography before, I had no idea what a vagina looked like beyond the usually hairy pubis, and was left rubbing aimlessly, with the distress of a housewife trying to assemble an Ikea desk without looking at the instructions. Fast-forward a few years later and there I was, my cock in a girl’s mouth, unsure if I was supposed to warn her I was about to cum. The moral dilemma quite often turned in my head to the point that it made me lose my erection, which was always followed by tons of questions like « Am I this bad ? ».

I often asked myself the same question, after I lost my virginity in the dark of my living room, following an intercourse that lasted about 20 seconds. How can something so simple be so complicated ? Having sex doesn’t require a PhD. Once you know the basics, it shouldn’t take too long to improvise and learn the rest, no ?

But sex is almost a science, and being submitted to a new, blooming relationship is like passing a test. You might try to postpone the inevitable by pretending you’re not yet ready, or the sex can comme almost immediately, fueled by booze and hormones, and really suck. You can be surprised by the sudden compatibility, or try to get it over with while counting the stars. Your new partner can be eager & sleazy, or boring and inadventurous. It’s like throwing the dice, really. You never know which number you’ll be stuck with.

For some guys, wondering if a girl is clitoridian or vaginal takes away the fun. Others see it as a challenge and don’t want to know right away, like courageous explorers of the unknown. It’s a question of philosophy, I guess.

I wish I could say that performance anxiety often disappears with age and experience, but I’m way too young to make that assumption. It can happen to anybody, any time, and even the most confident individuals can be struck by lightning. We are not immune to insecurity, and obsessing over performance will not solve anything. There’s more to a relationship than animalistic copulation. Should it happen to you, relax : it’s just sex.

Six Fois Rien

2007-03-06T14:08:00.000-05:00

Sans ordre particulier

-Le retour d'un front froid extrême coïncide chez moi avec une bronchite qui ne finit plus, un empoisonnement alimentaire qui me rend couramment plus faible que je ne l'ai jamais été, et mon zipper de manteau d'hiver qui a rendu l'âme hier soir dans l'autobus qui me ramenait chez moi. R.I.P. zip.

-Le plus surprenant dans la mort d'Henri Troyat, c'est d'apprendre qu'il n'était pas déjà mort !

-Même si je n'y mettrai vraisemblablement jamais les pieds, je suis bien content de savoir que c'est Jean Nouvel qui bâtira la nouvelle "succursale" du Louvre à Abu Dhabi, aux Émirats Arabes Unis.

-Quand j'étais môme, après une visite scolaire chez un apiculteur, chaque enfant a eu droit comme souvenir à un petit ourson en plastique contenant du miel. J'ai littéralement bu le mien, et il était vide quand l'autobus scolaire me ramena chez moi, malade comme un chien, et bien décidé à ne plus jamais ingérer de miel de ma vie.

-En Alaska, une controverse sévit présentement quant à la construction hypothétique de deux nouveaux ponts. Le congrès des États-Unis vient de sabrer dans leur financement. Le premier pont, le "Knik Arm Crossing", est en discussion depuis 1959. Le deuxième, situé dans le sud-est de l'état sur l'île de Gravina, relierait celle-ci à la ville de Ketchikan. Le pont desservirait... les 50 habitants du secteur.

-Sylvia Bourdon, star porno française des années '70 et reine de la provocation facile, serait devenue une activiste politique, "propagandiste de la monnaie unique" ayant milité pour l'adoption de l'Euro au sein de l'Union Européenne, et ce dès '88. Qu'est-elle devenue de nos jours ? Quiconque ayant entrepris la lecture de son autobiographie L'Amour est une Fête a maintenant le droit de ricaner en essayant de l'imaginer dans l'arène politique...

The Office

2007-02-28T20:45:00.000-05:00

Corporate culture can be painful to watch from the inside. Being part of it against my will, I can honestly tell you that it's not cool every day. You might have seen THE OFFICE a few times, but even if it's pretty close to reality, it doesn't perfectly describe the sheer boredom of an office job.

The worst is that it's not the job that's the most boring part - it's the co-workers. If you happen to have a hobby or if you've found a way to spend your time in an interesting way while being employed to do "not much", there will always be somebody to suck the life out of you, or prevent you from working on your stuff, because THEY are bored and are too dumb to find something to do themselves. They automatically assume that you're bored too and that you're willing to waste your time with small talk.

The worst part about office life are the others. People with loud voices, or odors. People with bad habits.

I have often seen people washing their hands, and leaving the room without turning the water off, as if it was going to turn itself off magically. There's a sign above the urinals and in the stalls that urge people to wash their hands, for their own health & mostly, their co-worker's. Often, people pissing will leave in a rebelious fashion, without complying. But the most troubling I have seen is someone taking a DUMP and leaving without even touching the sink.

These are people you work with. Sometimes you touch their hands. Often, they touch things that you'll also touch, namely stuff in the CAFETERIA. Stuff that you might PUT IN YOUR MOUTH.

Corporate culture can become painful pretty fast. The over-use of expressions such as "touch base" or "it's all good" sometimes lead me to wrongly believe I was secretly transported to Nebraska while taking a short nap.

It will come as no surprise to you to learn that I really enjoyed Ricky Gervais's THE OFFICE. So much that I miss it already, a couple of weeks after having completed the series. At first, the odd pace & weird documentary feeling made me feel uneasy, and I really didn't get where all this was going. But David Brent grows on you. Like bad seed.

Now that there are seven (!!!) incarnations of the popular series, including one that's called "La Job" and that's shot & showed here in Quebec, I could get my fix anywhere I turn. But I accept no substitute. I don't even want to TRY. It would kind of be sacrilegous, if you ask me. I have read in many of our fine cultural weeklies, as well as in MacLean's, that the main character of "La Job" was trying really hard to BE Ricky Gervais. So much that his character is named David Gervais.

It is in these moments that I feel blessed about having stopped watching TV 8 years ago, and having no envy whatsoever to stain my resolution.

*

Have I, even for a short moment, ever thought that Brian Yuzna was a good director ? Probably. Sure, his RETURN OF THE LIVING DEAD entry was a campy one, but it lacked the seriousness of the first two installments. His two DENTIST movies are watchable, but not the ones I'll remember if I ever go back in the dentist's chair. Shot in between the two DENTIST flicks, PROGENY is an entry about alien abductions that I recently watched as part of my Spring cleaning fever - yeah, I'm getting rid of some turds.

The movie starts out with two naked human beings making tender love - missionary style, of course, this is Hollywood - in their bed. Then there's a flash of light, and they don't know what's going on anymore. The husband (Arnold Vosloo) feels uneasy about the whole experience but the wife (Jillian McWhirter, who also tagged along for THE DENTIST 2) is okay. A couple of weeks later, wifey tells hubby she's pregnant, and with the help of the calendar they find out that the foetus was conceived on that fateful night.

Of course, the tension escalates from then on, and we're faced with a rather messy and unealthy thriller about maternity... and alien abductions. Brad Dourif plays the aliens specialist, a loser with a sociology Ph.D who documents abductions here and there. The special effects are not always top notch, and the way the aliens are portrayed is laughable, but there are a few good points here and there. To find them, however, you gotta look hard.

*

Can you say that a franchise who takes its time between episodes is trying to offer only the best it can ? The first MISSION : IMPOSSIBLE dates back from '96, the John Woo-directed follow-up was released in 2000, and the third (and hopefully final) edition last year, in 2006. Producing : Tom Cruise. Directing : JJ Abrams. After Brian De Palma & Woo, the challenge was big.

Can Mr. Abrams, who mainly worked for TV productions before, direct a good action movie ? He most definitly can. Can he stand on the same platform as the first two directors who handled the previous episodes ? Hell no.

There is no substance or visual style in this one. Tom Cruise returns as Ethan Hunt, agent extraordinaire. This time he's on the verge of getting married (to Michelle Monaghan, a cutie who also appeared in KISS KISS BANG BANG), has left the "force" to concentrate on passing on his skills by teaching them to new agents, and is generally quite the happy fella. But duty calls. Billy Crudup, once a side kick, gets him to come back for "one last mission" : saving an ex partner (Keri Russell) from the claws of a vicious weapons dealer (Philipp Seymour Hoffman).

So there he goes again with his all-stars team (comprised of Ving Rhames, Jonathan Rhys Meyers & Maggie Q). Big guns, explosions, cars, helicopters, SUV's, ladies, villains, intrigue, suspense, volte-faces, masks, high-end cities... We travel with them to a seedy Berlin industrial zone, to China, to the Vatican... and when the end credits roll, not a lot of good guys have been hurt, all the baddies are dead, and we sure are about to forget everything about the plot. Lawrence Fishburne should still star, somewhere, in a series about his Jimmy Jump character, and stick to it, because it's the best goddamn thing I've ever seen him doing.

If you like breath taking action scenes, see this. But if you didn't like the first two installments of these impossibly funky missions, don't bother seeing this one either.

*

In 1975, a French pornographer directed a flick called LE SEXE QUI PARLE under the name "Frédéric Lansac". It was, of course, our good friend Claude Mulot in disguise. The movie centered about a girl whose life was ruined by her... talking pussy, uttering things she thought - or didn't - out loud to various lovers & people she met. The idea was hilarious, but it was 1975, it was France, and it was porn : the movie was a local success in some XXX theaters and was then forgotten.

But not by all. In 1977, Tom DeSimone, the director of HELL NIGHT (1981) and LUST IN THE AFTERNOON (1975), released his own version of the story, centering on the story of Penny (Candice Rialson, then a popular skin flicks bombshell). Penny is a simple yet loving girl, whose life centers around her lover Ted and her job in a nail salon. The day her pussy starts talking & singing, she's confused, but her doctor sees no trouble at all and becomes her "doctor / agent" - obviously to start managing her carreer and make big bucks.

It's a funny metaphor about the porn industry. The singing vagina, renamed Virginia, becomes quite popular and goes on tour. Penny's mother, at first reluctant about her daughter exhibiting her "treasure" in such a shameless way, is eventually charmed by the possible income and jumps aboard the ship, fully embracing the "stars' lifestyle".

This plot may sound absurd, and it is - but it's just so much fun to watch ! It's a good-natured skin flick from the 70's, featuring all-natural beauties, lots of hair, and good humor. The music is typical for the times : a weird mix of disco and rock. Virginia even has a hit playing in nightclubs !

It is sad to note that the star, Candice Rialson, who appeared in such classics as CANDY STRIPE NURSES (1974) and MAMA'S DIRTY GIRLS (the same year) has died, on March 31st of '06, of a liver disease. Her sweet smile, inviting curves and natural charms shall be missed.

"Hello, you're an asshole"

2007-02-22T19:48:00.000-05:00

I'm lost in Absurdia. I wanted to write something meaningful, and I've been at it for a couple of days, but some factors around me have decided otherwise. Interruptions, lack of time, poor health and poor sleep have all joined forces to turn me into a slobbering zombie.

To survive a sudden & fierce attack of calls at work today, I had to drink lots of coffee, and even that coffee festival didn't chase away the humongous headache I've been suffering from since I woke up. I knew I should have stayed in bed.

I've been meaning to tell you about how much it sucks not to be able to attend the Rendez-Vous du Cinéma Québécois this year. I have nice memories from past editions : seeing 100% BIO with Serge Laprade, and asking Claude Gagnon countless questions about his filming experiences in Japan, a fascinating, isolated and unfortunately seldom known case in Quebec cinema.

My agenda is about to burst, so adding a few movies to it really wouldn't help. Although I am planning on not missing BURDEN OF DREAMS, a documentary about the filming of Herzog's FITZCARRALDO, when it plays for free at CCA on March 8th. I own a decrepit VHS of this title, so seeing a decent print of this promising feature isn't something I can pass on.

In other news, I am "trying" to eat better, without going to the extreme of a diet. I found out that I wasn't as flat-bellied as before, thanks to late night snacks and booze, and a "couldn't care less" attitude towards my many meals.

Thing is, I'm not so young anymore.

It's a sad revelation, believe me. What have you accomplished in all these years ? Close to nothing. I know it can be depressing to compare yourself to other, more hyperactive creators, but well, when I think about some overachievers and look back on what I've done over the years, I tend to label myself as a "slacker".

I don't like this term, as I don't usually like the sheer laziness that's associated with it. I work hard to pay my bills on time, you know. Having to work & study at the same time is one of the hardest things I have ever done. And still it's not enough. It's not enough for others, and it's not enough for me. Could it be that I'm asking too much ?

Let the good times roll. It often happens that people get sucked in by life and let their fate drift randomly in between sucky jobs & routine hobbies. This is the LAST thing I want to happen to me, you hear ?

If I ever become an annoying, mediocre no-brainer, please send me a message to wake me up. The content should read : "Hello, you're an asshole".

Not that I loathe being compared to a body part - because after all, an asshole is a many splendored thing when we come to think about it - but well, the asshole "label" still has some power. We're all assholes in a way, but it's never been a cool thing to hear when somebody is trying to describe you accurately.

Happy Birthday, Boy

2007-02-20T17:39:00.000-05:00

From the Miami Herald :

Swordsman can plead insanity in killings

SANFORD - (AP) -- A judge ruled Monday that a Lake Mary man may plead insanity for fatally stabbing his wife and son on the boy's 11th birthday.

Franklyn Duzant, 41, decapitated his wife, Evangeline, 52, and nearly decapitated his son, Nico, with a 36-inch samurai sword, in front of neighbors in June, authorities reported.

Duzant faces two counts of first-degree murder. He did not speak at Monday's hearing.

Assistant State Attorney Donna Goerner told Circuit Judge Donna McIntosh that the state would not oppose the insanity plea but does want state experts to conduct a mental evaluation of Duzant. The judge agreed.

Two mental health experts for the defense will testify that Duzant was insane on the day that he killed his wife and son, according to court documents. Defense attorney Diana Tennis has said Duzant appears to suffer from paranoid schizophrenia.

Prosecutors are seeking the death penalty.

The Winter of my Discontent

2007-02-17T17:41:00.000-05:00

Even if the month is short - and on the verge of finishing - I must say that February is the month I hate the most. I can survive the constant rains throughout October, the July heat and the Christmas fever of December, the hopelessness of seeing summer vanish during all of November and the "back to school" suckness of September, but enough is enough.

Let me make this clearer : I wanna move away. Far, far away. You might think I'm somewhat of a schizo. Changing my mind ? No. I may sing the marvels and wonders of Montreal, but it's nothing against the city itself, silly. I just can't stomach winter. It's cold out there - and also inside my appartment. The Hydro-Québec corporation pays its office space with my bills alone.

Calcium permeates everything it comes in contact with. I can't wear any fancy shoes when going out, because they'll quickly be ruined. Buses are delayed. Cars are splashin' slush on yo' ass. I've had it.

I have been thinking about Spain a lot lately. It's hot, beautiful, and part of the almighty European Union. There is always South America, but what the hell would I do there work-wise ? The Middle East, but it's a little volatile right now. Dubai, even if conflict-less, is a bit too pricey for me. Africa ? Could be nice, depending where. The best deal would be to hide somewhere on Ile de la Réunion and work in the touristic field. However, a tropical paradise would be tiring after a while, with nothing to do. It's complicated.

Chances are I'll probably end up staying here and complaining. And thus still write this goddamn blog !

*

Speaking about summer, what about Wes Craven's word on it ?

The old man seemingly has something to say. L'ÉTÉ DE LA PEUR anobody ? That would be STRANGER IN THE HOUSE, a 1978 TV movie he shot the year following THE HILLS HAVE EYES, and starring none else than Linda Blair. Can you feel my pain ? The VHS I watched was dubbed in french, adding to the "out there" feel. Whatever this movie was motivated by, you could never tell that Craven worked on it if I didn't tell you. The full frame edition didn't help, of course, but let me start where I'm supposed to begin.

The Bryant family is a happy bunch. They live somewhere in California; the father has big glasses, the mother (Carol Lawrence) is hot as hell, and the daughter (Blair) is proud of her horse. However, one morning, her aunt & uncle are killed in a car accident, and her mother announces that her cousin (Lee Purcell - who starred opposite Orson Welles in Bert I. Gordon's 1972 romp NECROMANCY) is going to come & live with them for a while. She seems charming at first, but after a while even the horse freaks out when he sees her. She ends up stealing Linda's boyfriend and wearing her clothes, and though she is loved by all the little Blair insists there's something fishy going on.

Linda Blair has never had bigger hair. Her face is buried in curls, and the cowgirl costumes she's wearing just add to the ridicule. One can easily understand why any guy would immediately ditch her for Lee Purcell, even if it's not nice to write it. The movie is well paced, of course, but its TV movie status is never quite forgotten. It's tame - there's a sexual sub-text that seems to develop, and is then almost dropped - and silly, and you never really root for anybody. You just watch with a smile as little Linda wakes up with her face swollen & red on the day she's supposed to go to some dance party, and as her boyfriend gets the hots for the sexy cousin and takes her for a ride (implicitly sexual).

There are enough unspoken acts in there to fill a whole porno, but I guess it's also the case with any movie involving more than one character. The supernatural elements & cheap special effects kick in towards the end and it goes downhill from there. Craven should have kept the dodgy scenes suggested, but what can we do other than watch ?

*

Korea has a strange cinematic landscape, much like Quebec's. Let's not compare budgets, but rather concentrate on the vast array of styles & treatments that koreans offer when they start shootin'.

Korean cinema "broke out" in the underground mainstream - a term seemingly contradictory, but the kind of term we unfortunately need nowadays - with a few releases that were not very serious - and not very good either. The most remembered of them all has to be Kim Sang-Jin's ATTACK THE GAS STATION (1999), a painful farce with sad late 90's punks... attacking a gas station. The movie featured immaturity, slaps, and a character who dreamed of being in a boy's band. The essence of Korean pop culture ? Let's hope not.

Park Chan-Wook changed the idea that we had about his national cinema with a trio of wonderful, oddly-paced movies, his "revenge" trilogy : SYMPATHY FOR MR. VENGEANCE (2002), OLDBOY (2003), and LADY VENGEANCE (2005). The fine folks at Fantasia also gave us a chance to view all kinds of oddities from Korea, over the years, and I now personally fully accept the fact that their cinema is as diverse and varied than any country's.

Which brings me to a flick that has been projected at Fantasia a few years ago, but that I missed : THE UNINVITED. Directed by newcomer Lee Su-Yeon in 2003, its original title is 4 INYONG SHIKTAK and it could be the best thing you ever come across to describe in images the old R.E.M. classic "Everybody Hurts".

A young man, on the verge of marrying a nice little bossy chick, lives a strange experience. He falls asleep on the subway, half drunk, and wakes up at the terminal. As he exits the wagon, he sees two little girls, asleep on the benches. But it's too late for him to get them out, already the wagon is leaving the station for the night. The next day, he hears the news : the two girls have been poisoned by their mother and left in the wagon on purpose. He is troubled. He is even more troubled when he goes home and finds their ghosts quietly sitting at his kitchen table.

Turns out that the guy doesn't know anything about his past - well, before he was seven - and he thinks he might have been adopted. Something bothers him. Why would he see the dead ? He ends up meeting a depressed narcoleptic girl - Jun Ji-Hyun, the sassy girl in... MY SASSY GIRL (2001) - who has the same "problem" as him. Together they'll try to "heal" each other, but the viewer will find out that pretty much every character has a dark secret hidden somewhere in his past.

This is a very troubling movie, mainly because most of the deads are children, and that their end is often graphically violent. This aspect, at least, is typically asian. And it can trouble eastern viewers. Some of the content is also confusing, sometimes not too explicit, and only hinted at. Playing the guessing game when the rythm is that slow and the running time more than two hours can be tiring. But the reward is haunting, and almost unhealthy. This well constructed plot will stay with you long after you have switched the TV off.

Things to do in Montreal when you're dead

2007-02-10T16:39:00.000-05:00

Dead. The word seems a little odd to describe how most people feel these days, but it's well chosen. This is extreme, but so are the conditions in which we have to struggle to stay alive. Minus 30's are not uncommon and the question often rises : why the fuck do we even bother ? Why insisting on living in this shithole city with this shitty climate ? Why don't we move to somewhere warm already ?

Because. Many reasons. There is only about three months out of 12 of bad weather to live through. We might be limited in sun, but we are certainly not lacking decent parties. And the reduced criminality and beautiful blend of cultural & ethnic flavours is something you can't find anywhere else. Try as you might, there are inconveniences everywhere, and Montreal offers the perfect balance : low crime rate, lots of cultural content, cheap rent, a laidback lifestyle, tolerance, the notable absence of any religion trying to interfere in politics, a variety of geographical environments, rich & poor people of all races & colors. A big melting pot of fun, and of cool people doing their best to share a piece of land.

We just have to make sure that winter blues doesn't kill us for real and when springtime comes, we'll be reborn. Or something.

*

My good pal Benjamant warned us all when he wrote about the most recent TEXAS CHAINSAW MASSACRE installment. I'd say his critic made me want to see the movie more than anything else. He qualified it as an "écoeuranterie sans nom". I now pretty much have to agree with him.

The movie is a prequel and was conceived by the same production team behind Marcus Nispel's 2003 THE TEXAS CHAINSAW MASSACRE, starring Jessica Biel in a tiny white tank top. A "remake" not to be confused with the poor attempt at a sequel made in 1994, THE RETURN OF THE TEXAS CHAINSAW MASSACRE, also known as TCM : THE NEW GENERATION. In this Kim Henkel-directed piece of nonsense, Renée Zellweger and Matthew McConaughey were both the figureheads in a ship of fools, if I might say. My only advice is never to watch it.

In the extras of the DVD, we are told that the current director of this new version, Jonathan Liebesman, who's responsible for 2003's DARKNESS FALLS and for the upcoming FRIDAY THE 13TH installment, wanted the movie to be "the most brutal possible" so that his "product" doesn't feel like other pieces of the current "horror renaissance" we are inundated with these days. In a sickening way, he has succeeded at crafting a movie that, if ridiculous at times, offers a nauseating level of visual violence.

We are supposed to learn more about Leatherface, but instead are served a nice lesson in inhumanity, and of how far special effects can go nowadays. I thought I was insensible and that a movie could never make me cringe, but this one is quite the exception. I will not start to describe how savage it is, but let's just say that it's not pretty, and that it could give any kid nightmares for weeks.

The overall production values are amazing. Sets are top notch, and so are the special effects. The cinematography is beautiful, and it all helps getting into the movie - something the script doesn't do very well. The dialogues are cheap one-liners, and their campiness is the only thing that helps save the movie from total darkness. "Comic relief", when put aside the intense butchery we're facing, isn't even funny anymore. The Hewitt family is portrayed by the same cast as in the 2003 remake, which is original & interesting. R. Lee Ermey does a fine job as a psychopatic sheriff, and the enormous Andrew Bryniarski becomes an intense & scary Leatherface. The kids playing the victims are all good-looking, of course, and a special mention goes to Diora Baird. She screams her way through the whole movie, and her lungs seem powerful and adequate enough for her to become a legendary scream queen.

It took the documentary detailing the special effects to exorcise the horror of it all, and even then I felt like I needed to take a shower to get rid of this bleak feeling the movie evoqued. Watch at your own risk...

*

LA REVANCHE DES MORTES VIVANTES, a seldom seen French gem from 1987, has got to be seen to be believed. The director is Pierre B. Reinhard, a porn king responsible for 1983's LE BAL DU VIOL and the better known Bleu Nuit fixture LE DIABLE ROSE, also shot in 1987 and featuring Brigitte Lahaie as a hooker with a heart of gold servicing nazis in a WWII parisian whorehouse.

The milk has been poisoned ! Three young small town girls die after drinking some poisoned milk and are buried in a nearby cemetary. The C.E.O. of a local chemicals plant is a very evil & horny man and in between romps with his secretary, orders his right hand man to dispose of some highly toxic waste. The waste, of course, is spilled in the cemetary where the chicks are buried and it wakes them up... The zombie girls then go on a killing spree that has all the visible signs of being commited by psycho-sexual killers; the murders all have something obscurely sexual, and the campiness level is high. A girl from Germany is flown in town to investigate about the spree. What she'll find out is even more ridiculous than any hypothesis you may come up with during a fever-induced delirium.

The overall acting skills are pretty limited, and the female players all seem to have some kind of porn background. They are rather vulgar and skanky, but in an oddly amusing way. The fashion fads from '87 probably don't help at beautifying them, but we won't hold that against them. This viewing experience is rather pleasant, and is one of the very last schlock titles that Reinhard was to work on. He went on to direct more shot-on-video porn in the 90's, forgetable pieces of exploitation that never overshadowed his previous oeuvres, among which OUTRAGES TRANSSEXUELS DES PETITES FILLES VIOLÉES ET SODOMISÉES wins the palm of the most absurd title ever.

Diapers & Messengers

2007-02-07T20:10:00.000-05:00

I could tell you about many things today. We live in a world where the abundance of human beings, on a daily basis, creates an incredible amount of stories worthy of narration. Events, anecdotes and absurd news are a' plenty. The world is small, the world is big; depends on your point of view, and your budget. Funny things happen. Less funny things also happen.

And so sometime during the last week-end, astronaut Lisa Nowak left Houston in her car and drove to Orlando, where she arrived early on Monday after a 900 miles drive. The most interesting part, from an article by Martin Merzer published today in the Miami Herald :

She donned adult diapers -- similar to those used by astronauts during launches and landings -- so she wouldn't have to make bathroom stops, police said. Two soiled diapers later were found in her car.

Police was at some point involved because Nowak - carrying a BB gun, a knife and pepper spray - was on her way to meet & confront Colleen Shipman, who has the infortune of dating William Oefelein. And mister Oefelein happens to be a stud worth fighting over, apparently. Funny thing is that Nowak, who's 43, is married to a NASA flight controller and they have two kids.

Let's get back to the diapers. What kind of "time gain" are we looking at now ? If you stop to take a leak, it can take about 5 minutes before you start up your car and resume the trip. If the stop is for "number 2", we're looking (depending on your eating habits) at roughly 5 to 15 minutes. What could possibly possess you to decide NOT to stop for bathroom visits ? The fact that you don't like public facilities ? Would you rather bathe in your own urine - or worst, excrements - while driving and be nauseated by the smell in the confort of your car ?

The most troubling fact of this fine piece of news is not the stalking, or the fact that Nowak is an astronaut - every profession has its nutjobs. It is the mental images that come to mind when trying to picture this woman on the way to vengeance, driving on a highway, and trying to remove her soiled diaper to avoid stopping the car at all costs. Then, once this almost-impossible task has been completed, to once more become a contortionist and put on another diaper, this time clean, but for how long ?

*

Ever thought about why people don't go to the movies as much as they used to ? Yes, there's a big part played by piracy and the web, and an equally big part played by the constant supersizing of home theaters, but there is also a plague we seldom think about : movie 'tards.

Movie 'tards can do anything : eat popcorn, nachos, get out of the theater while the movie runs, forget to close their cell phone or worse, answer it when it rings. They can also talk, chat, kick in your seat, behaviors that are generally unacceptable during a public viewing. When you agree to pay to see a movie with other people you may or may not know, you kind of sign a contract with your credit card or your hard earned dollars - the same social contract your mother signed with her blood when she gave you birth, stating that you had to SHARE the planet with other human beings, wether you liked it or not.

I have many friends who stopped going to the movies because they're fed up of moviegoers who think that the theater belongs to them, or seem to oversee the fact that they are no longer sitting on their living room couch. It's very simple : if you watch a movie with other people you don't know, the first and most basic rule is to SHUT THE FUCK UP.

Which brings me to Thursday Feb. 1st, at the Paramount. I won some passes for the premiere of THE MESSENGERS, as always with the Mirror. I was interested to see this movie for numerous reasons : I like movies taking place on a farm, I love horror movies, and I quite like the Pang brothers. THE MESSENGERS happen to be their first "american" movie, taking place on a North Dakota farm, and being quite HORRIFIC. I opted out of the CCA's free projection of BIOSPHERE in favour of that, for chrissakes !

It's the story of a family moving to a remote sunflower farm, trying to start a new small town life after an untold accident. The "accident" will remain a secret almost until the end of the movie, and is quite a disappointment. You would have expected something trashy, or scandalous, but the revelation is quite banal. But don't judge the rest on that observation.

Yes, the special effects are good, but not always that good. And the pace is slow, but that's how we like it. There are buried secrets that will slowly reveal themselves, until the conclusion where everything is thrown in your face - and, for a change, it actually makes sense. Those of you who have seen THE EYE and other Pang brothers "classics" will recognise some effects here and there, but the similitudes stop there - there's something going on, in the great open, and if you just let yourself go you'll be scared.

But I wasn't. Quite simply put, there were some people working very hard to make sure that NOBODY enjoys the movie. The "open door policy" of the Paramount resulted in some people still coming in a good 30 minutes after the start of the movie. Not of the never-ending preview reels, no, but the start of the main feature itself.

It would appear that the studio is also very scared of piracy. Our bags were searched at the door. There were some security dudes everywhere, and one of them was even dressed in white, with grades on the shoulders of his shirt : he was the boss. You have to appreciate a guy dressed in white in a theater, especially when he's constantly walking around, in front of the screen, looking at the moviegoers with binoculars. Because that's what he was there for. Between his rounds, he would also go to the side of the room to chat out loud with his buddies.

On top of feeling like we were convicts who have been given the temporary right to watch a movie for our good conduct, before being thrown back to our cells, it made the suspension of disbelief impossible. It constantly clashed with the momentum the movie was trying to establish with its audience.

I wrote to the Paramount a couple of days afterwards, and was told that the studio (Sony Pictures) only rented the space and provided the room with its own security. Would you take a look at how pathetically lame the way they wash their hands of any responsibility is ? They also advised me to forward my concerns to Sony. Something I will do, for sure, but that leaves me bitter.

The successive ruining of many moviegoing experiences for me has almost convinced me never to set foot in there again. Not that I usually pay. But even putting my buns on one of their seats will look like I'm giving up on my dignity now. And it's not something we want, do we ?

Caquetages Polyphoniques

2007-01-27T17:29:00.000-05:00

Il peut devenir difficile de se concentrer, au bureau, par un beau samedi ensoleillé, quand les quelques employés présents sur les lieux s'imaginent qu'ils sont là par pur désoeuvrement, oublient qu'ils sont payés, et transforment un endroit habituellement (relativement) silencieux en club social. Il y a aujourd'hui des conversations isolées qui fusent d'un peu partout, et qui traitent de tout et de rien. Mon focus sélectif n'en retient que l'irritation qu'elles me procurent, et au-delà des mots, je ne perçois que les timbres de voix divers et tous aussi agressants les uns que les autres.

Croyez-moi, c'est pire que ce que nous laissait entrevoir Ricky Gervais dans sa cultissime série THE OFFICE. Car en tant qu'étudiant qui est là uniquement pour faire son travail le plus paisiblement possible, et rentrer chez moi une fois que c'est fait, je fais de mon mieux pour passer inaperçu et profiter du peu de tâches que l'on me donne pour, disons, avancer dans mes lectures académiques. Comment pensez-vous que mes collègues réagissent ? Croyez-vous qu'ils respectent mon besoin d'isolement, qu'ils sont assez observateurs pour se rendre compte que je n'ai pas envie de pathétiquement interagir avec eux ? Que je suis plongé dans ma lecture - ou même, en train d'écrire ? Mais non ! Ils s'imaginent que j'ai besoin de leur attention et m'interrompent sans cesse pour me saouler avec leur "small talk" de débiles profonds.

Une des choses qu'ils interrompent, loin d'être académique, est la lecture d'un livre que j'ai découvert cette semaine lors d'une visite impromptue au Indigo en face du bureau : THE GREAT WAR FOR CIVILISATION de Robert Fisk.

Robert Fisk est le correspondant au Moyen-Orient du quotidien britanique THE INDEPENDENT, et possiblement le journaliste de guerre le plus percutant des quarante dernières années. Il a interviewé Osama bin Laden trois fois, et nous avertit aujourd'hui dans le quotidien des signes précurseurs d'une guerre civile imminente au Liban, pays au sujet duquel il a déjà publié le livre Pity the Nation. Je peux d'ores et déjà vous dire que ce livre est difficile à poser. Une fois engendrée, sa lecture est dangereusement prenante. Vous en entendrez sans doute parler davantage dans un futur rapproché car la brique, publiée chez Harper Perennial, pèse exactement 1368 pages.

*

Une chaîne de coïncidences inusitées :

J'ai appris, en lisant un article du New York Times sur l'insolite bourgade de Calcata, en Italie, que Gianni Macchia y vivait et y tenait un café Via Garibaldi, le Caffe Kafir. Voilà donc ce que devient ce patibulaire personnage étant apparu dans de nombreux films de Fernando Di Leo ! Ses classiques incluent entre autres VACANZE PER UN MASSACRO, tourné en 1980, avec Joe Dalessandro et Lorraine de Selle.

Lorraine de Selle qui s'accouple dans une verrière avec Giovanni Lombardo Radice dans HOUSE AT THE EDGE OF THE PARK, de Ruggero Deodato, un film que j'ai récemment tenté de visionner avec Miss Bijoux, mais qui l'a révolté au point que nous ne l'avons pas terminé. Tout ça à cause de la mysogynie extrême de l'ensemble, et surtout de la scène où David Hess joue du rasoir sur une jeune vierge nue.

Il est intéressant de noter que j'ai rencontré David Hess en 2000, à la convention "Cult Con" qui réunissait Hess & Deodato pour la première fois depuis 1997. Les deux ont travaillé ensemble à de nombreuses reprises, mais leur première - et plus retentissante - collaboration remonte à 1980. Quant à ma rencontre avec Hess, elle s'est effectuée à Tarrytown NY, dans le lobby d'un hotel bourré de cinéphiles déviants. David était bien content de trouver un public apte à entretenir une conversation avec lui, et nous a appris entre autres, avec sa désinvolture habituelle, qu'il avait jadis composé une chanson pour Elvis.

Nous avons pris une photo ensemble, dans laquelle il m'étrangle avec son air de psychopathe, et elle est aujourd'hui ce que j'ai de plus précieux. Enfin, peut-être pas. Je conserve aussi de cette hallucinante aventure un panneau "Do not Disturb" que j'ai volé directement sur la porte de la chambre de Deodato, alors que des types de Grindhouse Releasing s'y trouvaient avec lui pour enregistrer la piste de commentaires du DVD de CANNIBAL FEROX.

J'espère, messieurs, que personne ne vous a interrompu à cause de moi !

*

Au Klub de Nice, le week-end dernier, Sweetlight jouait vendredi et Frank Mueller, a.k.a. Beroshima, jouait samedi. Du côté de Londres, à The End, le label Bugged Out présentait un événement qui durait toute la nuit samedi. Dans la salle principale : Simian Mobile Disco, Erol Alkan & Digitalism. Dans le lounge : JoJo de Freq & Boys Noize.

Hier soir, au Razzmataz de Barcelone, un club de cinq salles, on retrouvait à l'affiche Groove Armada, Jesse Rose, Undo et Cajuan. Ce soir, mon ami Mr. Moto y entendra Ellen Allien & Apparat, entre autres, dans le cadre d'un voyage professionnel.

Une question demeure : où sont ces noms en Amérique du Nord ?! Serions-nous culturellement arriérés ?*

* "Nous" excluant, bien évidemment, l'auteur de ces lignes...

*

Mes visionnements en VHS vont bon train, et j'ai récemment retrouvé une copie du film ARACHNID, réalisé par Jack Sholder en 2001. En ayant entendu beaucoup de bien, et sachant que la FANTASTIC FACTORY de Brian Yuzna était derrière, j'ai donc décidé de le visionner. Mon enthousiasme du départ a pourtant fait place assez rapidement à une légère irritation, qui n'a fait que s'amplifier pour finir en crescendo en même temps que le film.

Mettant en vedette une araignée géante, avec des origines occultes - et même, semble-t-il, extra-terrestres ! - et ses aventures pour croquer de l'humain sur une île tropicale du Pacifique Sud, cette oeuvre nous propose de l'invraisemblance par pleines chaudières, ainsi que des performances douteuses et des personnages qui sont fort malheureusement aux limites du cliché. Chris Potter joue les héros, et Alex Reid une femme fatale sauvage, pilote d'avion, avec une "push-up bra" qui rendrait Lara Croft verte de jalousie. Elle est quand même fort jolie, mais il est dommage qu'elle perde son temps de la sorte. Ce qui est moins dommage, c'est qu'un retournement scénaristique complètement débile fait qu'elle doit, à un moment dans le film, enlever sa camisole.

Deux acteurs d'origine espagnole, Neus Asensi et Ravil Isaynov, jouent un couple de scientifiques qui accompagnent une expédition sur l'île, destinée à retrouver des disparus et à identifier une nouvelle espèce - qui se révèle être, vous l'aurez deviné, la grosse araignée en CGI. Le problème est que leur accent est tellement prononcé qu'on ne comprend pas la moitié de ce qu'ils éructent. Quant aux effets spéciaux, ils sont assez lamentables merci.

Mon seul conseil serait donc de vous en tenir le plus loin possible, mais comme je vous connais vous n'allez pas m'écouter et n'en faire qu'à votre tête...

*

Ceux d'entre vous qui se considèrent comme des cinéphiles et qui ne connaissent pas Troma sont mal partis. Studio indépendant du New Jersey oeuvrant depuis des lustres, fondé par le truculent trublion Lloyd Kaufman, Troma Films est responsable entre autres de la série des TOXIC AVENGERS, oeuvrettes trash hautement jouissives qui méritent amplement le statut légendaire qu'on leur accorde. Leurs productions ont été, jusqu'à la fin des années '90, des bombes lâchées dans la culture américaine et destinées à faire éclater la rate de tous ceux qui aiment bien la vie.

Ils ont aussi énormément distribué, et pas toujours à leur avantage. A l'exemple d'Eurociné, en France, ils achetaient des films indépendants un peu fauchés pour pas trop cher et leur offraient une nouvelle vie via leur efficace réseau de distribution VHS, puis un peu plus tard DVD.

Tel semble être le cas de SIZZLE BEACH USA, un film d'exploitation sans grande rigueur datant de 1986, qui raconte les péripéties invraisemblables de trois jeunes filles fraîchement débarquées à Malibu, Californie. Le "tagline" du film est évocateur : "Hot sand, hot bodies, hot Costner !" Car oui, Kevin Costner apparaît dans le film sous les traits d'un propriétaire de ranch suffisant qui fréquente une des demoiselles et qui fricote avec un nain conduisant une Stingray bleu acier et ressemblant de façon fort troublante au lutin de Noël de SEINFELD.

Bien entendu, le film n'est qu'un vaste et coûteux prétexte pour exposer divers aspects de l'anatomie des actrices. Et de ce côté-là, ça pétarade ! Il faut dire que les demoiselles sont plutôt jolies et que ça ne fait donc pas trop mal aux yeux, mais il st surprenant de retrouver en leur sain autant de silicone. Mais nous sommes en Californie, après tout, et ça n'est donc guère surprenant !

Le réalisateur, Richard Brander, est un acteur de formation, qui en était alors à ses premières armes. Il est apparu devant la caméra, entre autres, dans HELL'S BLOODY DEVILS, réalisé en 1970 par Al Adamson, dans lequel jouait aussi, invraisemblance suprême, Harland Sanders - LE colonel qui intoxique encore couramment les estomacs courageux avec sa franchise PFK (KFC pour les intimes).

Ce qui est amusant, c'est que tout le film nous mène jusqu'à un insipide concours de chant, qui en est la conclusion, loin d'être fracassante. Comme morale, on a vu mieux. Les personnages agissent sans motifs apparents, et il est hautement amusant de voir tout ça se dérouler sous nos yeux ébahis, mais je dois vous confier que je me suis pris à utiliser la légendaire touche FFWD à quelques reprises lors des scènes d'accouplement. Ma vieille VHS originale, achetée à l'époque où je chassais le trésor chaque week-end, provient d'un "Vidéoclub International" miteux de la rive nord, et repose maintenant en paix au fond d'une boîte destinée à être exportée vers le nord-est de la province pour y commencer une nouvelle existence qui sera, souhaitons-le, moins ingrate que celle qu'elle a souffert entre mes sales mains.

Un Hibou Pornophile

2007-01-20T17:40:00.000-05:00

Quelquefois, l'animal en moi ne peut plus rester coi et sort ses griffes, me déchire de partout et bondit à l'extérieur pour terroriser mon entourage. C'est ce qui s'est produit jeudi soir. Le lancement de ma nouvelle soirée devait avoir lieu à l'Academy, mais pour des raisons obscurément mortifiantes que je n'évoquerai pas ici, l'événement a dû être annulé. Sans que ça soit par vengeance ou dépit, j'ai décidé d'aller entendre mes amis Omni, Axel Klein & Sean Kosa au Saphir.

J'ai toujours eu la main un peu lourde lorsqu'il s'agit de me servir mes propres drinks. J'ai tendance à me fier à ma jugeotte - déficiente - pour verser la vodka en premier lieu, et ensuite la recouvrir du liquide servant au "mix" avec ce qu'il reste d'espace dans mon verre. J'utilise généralement un "energy drink" quelconque, préférablement du Guru, mais comme il n'y en a pas toujours au dépanneur je me retrouve parfois avec des trucs pas possibles. Bref, trop d'alcool. J'ai eu le temps de boire exactement trois verres avant que l'heure du départ ne sonne. Le Party Owl avait aussi décidé de sortir, alors c'est main dans la main, avec Bruce Benson, Mr. Bérêt & Miss Bijoux que nous sommes partis vers la rue St-Laurent.

Les vodka / canneberges n'ont pas tardé à devenir doubles, et c'est fort vaguement que je me souviens du déroulement de la soirée. J'ai marché dans une bouteille de bière cassée, par terre, et elle s'est étrangement retrouvée prise autour de mon soulier. Je me suis bien évidemment coupé deux doigts assez profondément en tentant de l'enlever, et je me suis mis à saigner comme un cochon. Une jolie demoiselle m'a donné les premiers soins.

Miss Bijoux & Mr. Bérêt sont partis bien avant moi. L'heure du départ a toutefois fini par sonner pour moi aussi, et a pris la forme d'un employé de la sécurité qui portait, croyez-le ou non, une chaîne partant de sa narine et allant jusqu'à son oreille, à l'exemple du tristement célèbre Dave "the Snake" Sabo - ou encore Jane Child.

A ce moment une demoiselle avait déjà tenté de me subtiliser le hibou, et suite à sa restitution forcée m'a avoué être plastico-kleptomane. Elle a déjà, entre autres, fait disparaître un cornet géant d'une crèmerie.

Un groupe de filles à l'air particulièrement intoxiqué, qui célébraient l'anniversaire de l'une d'entre elles, m'a emprunté le hibou à la sortie du bar pour quelques photos. Elles ont aussi fait une offre d'achat : 20$. Comme j'aime bien mon hibou et que je n'avais pas envie de prendre une marche jusqu'au Canadian Tire pour le remplacer, j'ai refusé. Une des filles, fort jolie, m'a offert de me montrer ses seins en échange du prédateur. Je leur ai dit que la paire de seins + 20$ constituait un bon deal mais ça devait être trop cher pour elles ! Elles m'ont dit me détester, de trouver pathétique que je préfère un hibou en plastique à une fille de chair, et m'ont aussi demandé si mon pénis entrait facilement dans l'orbite vide du Party Owl - qui, il faut le préciser, est borgne.

Comme il me restait 1.50$ en poche, j'ai marché jusque chez moi avec le hibou sous le bras, sans rencontrer trop de trouble-fêtes.

Crocodile Shoes Blues

2007-01-13T17:14:00.000-05:00

At one point last year I started being obsessed by the idea of possessing crocodile skin mocassins. I didn't even care that they had to be real; any imitation, if cheaper, would have done the trick. I also wanted snakeskin boots - might have been the late influence of WILD AT HEART, or not. I hopped from one shoe store to the other, my disappointment growing bigger every minute. I spotted some very powerful turquoise snakeskin mocassins at B2, but they were priced at 499$ plus taxes - on sale. Aldo had some rather OK ones, made in leather stamped in crocodile pattern, and on top of it all they were white - but they were priced at 100$, and I'd never pay such an amount for cheap-looking shoes. What in the world was I to do ?

I did nothing. I just dropped the idea as a whole.

Which pains me, because this is something I do often. But you have to make some choices when your income is as limited as mine, you know ? No fancy italian shoes, and no silk Armani crazy-colored ties either, because I don't even have the fancy suit to match them with in the first place.

But today, seeing that mocassins season has been extended - I still weir my beige leather ones almost daily, since there's no snow anywhere - I regret being such a poor-ass wimp.

But that's the way life is, buddy. That's the way love goes. It's the cry of the north american, middle-class white man. Complaining with its filthy mouth full.

*

Karen Simpson is moving to Australia on Thursday. What the ?! Didn't see that one coming, did ya ?

I'll miss her always-outrageous presence when I go out. But I'll send her some news. And who the fuck knows, I might even fly there myself sooner or later. Maybe when I'm done with Madagascar, Ushuaia, Easter Island and Gabon.

Cold Blooded & Hot-Headed

2007-01-10T19:44:00.000-05:00

It occured to me that the cold has struck again. Global warming took a break today, it would seem, to leave its place to a minus 42 000 degrees celsius weather. The wind is not helping, and it would seem that it is, for a 10th of Jan., a pretty average figure. In Miami, however, is it currently 72 Farenheit. With some clouds.

What's happening in Miami these days ? The city's in the middle of a building boom. Humans face crises. Like in every city on the surface of this earth. The everyday drama. The boring and the beautiful. The surprising and the typical. As much as I'd love to be there a couple of months a year, there's nothing that will convince me to move away from Montreal... for now. So, what's up in Miami ?

Yesterday Sharlyn Singh, 29, put her crying baby in the oven and turned it on, while fighting with her boyfriend. She walked out of the house when he asked her where the baby was. A few minutes later, he heard the cries and rescued the toddler. Little Singh was safe and unharmed.

Danny Robert Villegas, the same day, entered the Kennedy Space Center Federal Credit Union and told the teller he was robbing her. He added : "You might as well call the police now". He then went to sit on a couch and waited for the cops to show up. Apparently, he was tired of his job as a roofer, that he had been occupying for the last five years. He fondly remembered the 70 months he had spent in a federal penitentiary many years ago and longed to go back there. Way to go !

In Miramar, a woman coming back from the grocery store put her 2 years old baby to sleep and got into her kitchen only to find a stranger in there, waiting for her. The man proceeded to put a blanket on top of her head, drag her to the living room and rape her while repeatedly telling her that he was doing that as revenge. "Your husband owes me money". The name he mentioned, however, was not the lady's husband's name. He has not been caught so far.

Pedro Agudelo, 63, owner of LeJeune Liquors, on 42nd Avenue in West Gables, was quietly working around 10 PM when Dusviel Hernandez, 22, came inside his store, pulled out a gun and demanded the content of the cash register. Agudelo instead pulled out a gun from behind the counter and shot him dead.

This morning, behind a North Miami Beach U.S. Navy recruiting site, a suspicious package was left by a strange man. Prior to leaving it, he entered the recruiting facility, made a comment about the war in Iraq, stepped outside, and snapped a picture of the building. The street was shut and the FBI Bomb Squad was called in. Deciding the package posed no threat to public safety, the streets were re-opened to the public around 1 PM.

Tonight, after dusk settles, an emergency crew dressed in protective bee suits will creep up to some trees in Arch Creek Park, in Northeast Miami-Dade, and spray foam on close to 30 000 bees that have decided to settle there a few days ago.

A quiet 24 hours in South Florida.

*

Which brings me to a beach, a beach with sand that could turn red, a beach where lots of persons walk by during the day, but where a few of them also disappear at night... a BLOOD BEACH. A movie which tagline is : "Just when you thought it was safe to go back in the water - you can't get to it.". About it, a IMDb user comments : "Jaws will keep you out of the water but Blood Beach will put you back in the car and send you home."

It is the second film I have "watched" during the last few months with both the word "beach" in its title and John Saxon playing a cop in it. And even though NIGHTMARE BEACH wasn't a highlight in my film fan carreer, BLOOD BEACH is the worst of the two. Big time. No doubt. No questions asked.

One fine morning, a lady takes a walk with her dog. She is "swallowed" alive by the sand. Reported lost by the local cops, her daughter flies in to look for her. A few days afterwards, a girl who's half buried in the sand feels "something" grabbing her legs, and then feeding on them. She is dug out by her friends just in time for them to look at her fake blood-covered legs with a look of horrified disgust. At this point, I was more than bored and started heavily using the FFW button, but even this hope of salvation couldn't redeem how bad this movie is, so the "Stop + RWD" method had to be used.

Blame it on the mood - or on whatever you feel like blaming it on. The large shots, the boring plot, the bad performances, the sloppy effects - I lost my temper. John Saxon appears after 30 minutes. There's a rather tame sex scene between some hero and his flight attendant wife - filmed in the dark. How captivating.

Jeffrey Bloom is not a very good director, and his filmography will not contradict me; it comprises only of titles you've never heard anywhere but in whispered conversations among "special people". If you ever cross that movie on a sidewalk, you might wanna move to another city.

*

"Haunting and beautiful" is a combination of clichés we could apply to a wide range of oeuvres, but I find them particularly fitting to describe Kim Ki-Duk's SAMARIA (2004). Ki-Duk has mostly gotten used to rather odd movies where violence suddenly explodes without warning and where the moral aspects of relationships between men & women are sometimes questionable. Three of his most widely distributed movies in Québec are THE ISLE, BAD GUY & 3-IRON.

The mood, here, is as contemplative as it is violent. But at the same time, it's a very beautiful violence. Young girl Yeo-jin sells herself to various men while her friend Jae-yeong manages her "carreer". They seemingly are raising money to fly to Europe and escape Korea. Yeo-jin is busted by the cops one day, and throws herself out of the third floor window of the hotel she was in, rather than getting caught and dishonoured. She cracks her skull open and dies. What follows is as incredible as it is well plotted, and you'll have to see for yourself if you wanna know what's up.

Korean cinema shows some promises, if it can steer clear from its numerous "americanisms". Both Kim Ki-duk and Park Chan-wook (OLDBOY (2003), SYMPATHY FOR LADY VENGEANCE (2005)) shoot very distinctive movies, have a style of their own, and a very particular voice. If they can generally avoid trying to "hollywoodise" everything and inserting their particularly immature "bully" humor - such as the one over-employed by Kim Sang-Jim in movies such as ATTACK THE GAS STATION (1999) and KICK THE MOON (2001) - in everything they export, my belief is that Korea will be a major player in the cinematic field, in the very near future.

Bullet Trains & Bullet Holes

2007-01-06T16:16:00.000-05:00

One of these days, you'll have to explain why reasonable alternatives to cars, and efficient public transit systems, always seem to be built everywhere all over the world but not near us. It has recently been brought to my attention that Taiwan's Bullet Train was finally inaugurated on Friday Jan. 5th, after the idea first emerged in 1980. Not bad - it only took 27 years to plan it, and set it up. This train will now travel - litterally like a bullet - through the length of the island of Taiwan at 289,6 kilometers / hour, a speed that is almost 20 kilometers faster than my car's hypothetical top speed. And I write "hypothetical" because I have never dared to verify that fact, found while digging in the original '82 user's manual I found in the glove compartment when I bought it. But that is quite fast, believe me.

Which means that the train can go from Taipei to Kiohsiung in 90 minutes. While flying takes 30 minutes. The train is consequently 1/3 as fast as a plane. And it has no stops on some of the departures. Talk about efficiency. The financial cost, however, isn't as friendly : it costs 44$ US for a one-way coach ticket from Taipei to Kiohsiung, a sum that represents 2/3 of the cost of an equivalent flight.

It also has positive consequences on the environment; if the train is fully loaded while traveling, official calculations show that passengers will use 1/6th of the energy they'd use if they were to travel alone in a car, and release only 1/9th of the carbon dioxide they would in a car. But what if the train is not full ? Or if the passengers of the car used as an example travel as a family of four, in the same vehicle ?

The final cost of this system is estimated at 15 billions. That's a shitload of dough. But stations had to be built, and the whole train travels on an impressive 60 foot high viaducts to avoid crossroads and trafic. Not quite air travel, but close.

*

I am in the process of watching the FRIDAY THE 13TH series in chronological order, and will feed you more details later on, but I was surprised to see that Joseph Zito had directed one of the installments. After watching it and deciding it was one of the best so far, I suddenly remembered that I had his THE PROWLER (1981) somewhere on VHS and dug it out of its dusty hiding place at the bottom of a long-forgotten box. The process of getting rid of numerous VHS tapes is well on its way at my place, and Miss Bijoux & I can sometimes watch as much as two turds in one evening, repeating the pain several nights in a row.

So this PROWLER begins and you get the immediate feeling that it highly ressembles Georges Mihalka's MY BLOODY VALENTINE. But echoes of the similarities fade fast enough. It is about a soldier who killed his treacherous fiancée and her new lover, at the end of WWII, with a pitchfork. The soldier is never identifier, and the credits roll. We are then taken to 1980, where a graduation party is about to take place. Teenagers are excited, and lust is in the air. When the sun goes down, however, the killings start...

What we then have is a pitchfork carrying soldier with a mask over his face, slaughtering attractive youngsters for kicks. All coming alive, of course, courtesy of Tom Savini's effects. It is unfortunately not the best work he's done. The killings aren't as imaginative as you'd think, and the rest of the plot is rather tiring : the prowler prowls, young people dance (to some really pathetic rock band) and the lead (Pam MacDonald) and her cop boyfriend drive around ina beat-up police jeep. Perhaps the legend made this one seem better than it actually is, or perhaps I am watching too many quality slasher these days and it has affected my judgement, but I was less than impressed.

What remains : attractive young ladies & gentlemen, and not much more.

*

After seeing Crispin Glover dance like an idiot in the Joseph Zito-directed FRIDAY THE 13TH : LAST CHAPTER, I had no choice but to grab another 1984 movie in which he starred : TEACHERS. I was given that tape when Mathieu Prudent & me parted ways after living together for two years. And it's safe to say that my VCR is probably the last device this tape will ever visit in its lifespan.

The movie pictures the everyday struggle that teachers of an average US high school face when coming to work. Kids are bratty, but they're not the worst. The administration doesn't care about the kid's learnings, having a policy not to flunk anybody. What you get, then, is : Nick Nolte playing a deluded and burned out drunk hunk; JoBeth Williams (POLTERGEIST) a lawyer and ancient student of Nolte's with a "great ass"; Ralph Macchio as the most unbelievable baby-faced gangster ever filmed; Laura Dern as a misleaded young girl sleeping with a butt-ugly gym teacher; and Crispin Glover as a young and impulsive rebel.

It's a "feel good" teen movie with a social message, and while it's easy to watch and enjoy, it gets tedious and has its flaws, all related to the fact that it didn't age very well. It has its moments, though, and it is densely narrated, never allowing you to catch your breath with a multitude of masterfully directed sub plots.

It was directed by Arthur Hiller, a Canadian originally from Edmonton, Alberta, who's been active since 1955 and who, among many other titles, has directed the original 1970 "OUT OF TOWNERS", written by Neil Simon, and starring the late Jack Lemmon.

*

Closer to home, even if I have never seen Denis Chouinard's first feature CLANDESTINS - don't worry, it's also sitting somewhere on a shelf at my place - I rather liked L'ANGE DE GOUDRON (even if I could have done without its improbable ending) and I have recently seen DÉLIVREZ-MOI, his third one, and my favourite so far.

In it, Céline Bonnier plays a released convict, having just done 10 years after killing her lover, who also happened to be the father of her daughter. Her daughter has grown up in her grandmother's custody in a small industrial city, and refuses to move in with her when she comes back to get her. Bonnier's character will do her best to get her back, fighting in a world that was never tender to her, while walking around town in mouth-watering mini-skirts & tank tops.

The vindictive and pious grandmother, played by Geneviève Bujold, still feels vengeful after 10 years and can't forgive her son's assassin. Patrice Robitaille, playing a small time loser who lives in his parent's basement with hemp posters hanging on the walls, is not insensible to Bonnier's skirts and does all he can to "befriend" her. Her lesbian parole officer is also pretty interested, which makes Bonnier pretty busy in between her daughter's visits.

The exterior locations in which the movie is shot are gorgeous pieces of land, and it gives the movie an overall poetic feel. Rivers, island and industrial cityscapes all contribute to the visual enjoyment. If you like Rodrigue Jean's rural dramas, chances are you'll also enjoy this. There's something very weird, though, and it's the inclusion of a yugoslavian neighbor who teaches Bonnier lessons about life, death and friendship. Has Chouinard hung out too much with Kusturica lately ? Whatever his reasons are, it is rather unrealistic that a yugoslavian's settling choice would be this far away shit town, as gorgeous as it is.

This rather intriguing piece of film makes me wonder what Chouinard will come up with next. All eyes on him !

Dawn of the Dead '07

2007-01-02T17:22:00.000-05:00

Comme un jeune garçon excité par ses hormones, j'ai encore une fois bu trop de Guru - assaisonné de beaucoup de vodka, rassurez-vous - dans la nuit menant du dernier dimanche de 2006 au premier lundi de 2007, et j'ai eu bien du mal à dormir le lendemain. Et la nuit suivante. Me voilà donc au boulot en ce beau samedi, un peu zombie, un peu ennuyé de me trouver ici. Pourtant, je n'ai pas exagéré pour le nouvel an : à 3h40 AM à la S.A.T., le party étant devenu à mes yeux déformé par l'alcool et un peu exténuant, j'ai récupéré mon manteau et je suis parti seul, marchant sous la pluie jusque chez moi.

Je ne devrais donc pas être si fatigué, mais je le suis. Imaginez donc mon irritation, un peu plus tôt, quand je suis tombé sur une scène complètement surréaliste au Centre Eaton (qui est, rappelons-le, situé juste au-dessous de la tour dans laquelle je travaille, et qui est FERMÉ en ce mardi 2 janvier 2007) : des magasineurs en quantité INDUSTRIELLE, qui marchent en grappes devant les magasins, s'arrêtant pour contempler des vitrines...

C'est dans des moments comme ça qu'on regrette de ne pas constamment traîner d'appareil photo sur soi.

Un centre d'achat FERMÉ dans lequel des magasineurs se retrouvent quand même. Incroyable !

Sur une note un peu moins absurde, je souhaite à mes deux lecteurs un bon départ pour 2007, et beaucoup de lucidité hallucinée devant un monde qui déraille de plus en plus. Quand j'en ai eu assez de me parler tout seul des inconstances dont j'étais constamment témoin, je me suis mis à déblatérer sur ce blog et voilà, plus d'un an après, je suis encore là, malgré la baisse de popularité des blogs en général et de leur manque de contenu en particulier.

Prenez un verre à ma santé...

My Life Coach is Dead

2006-12-30T14:36:00.000-05:00

I am lying in the middle of my non-existent Christmas holidays like a corpse on a fruit cake.

I'm havin' a good time, but it doesn't feel like I'm having any time off. My supervisor is a few days away from the start of her 70 weeks long maternity leave and she brought her daughter to the office. Not the one she carries around in her belly, but the one she gave birth to about 10 years ago. They go together like APRILE and THE SON'S ROOM.

There's a book that's keeping me prisoner of its pages these days. It chronicles 50 years of African independence, starting right at the end of colonialism and pretty much embracing all of Africa. It is ambitious. But I am afraid that its 700 or so pages aren't enough. The explanations fly by. Nothing is deepened. It is called THE FATE OF AFRICA and is written by Martin Meredith, a long-time correspondent for the Times of Zambia.

It is so far a sad tale of freedom. The Algerian civil war has just ended, in '62. The French are letting go of their stronghold on l'Afrique Française. The brits have already let Ghana go after the political success of Kwame Nkrumah pretty much forced them to. And Meredith's tale reads like a good fiction story.

Which echoes the recent (2005) capture of a monster named Charles Taylor. And the hanging of Saddam Hussein on Saturday morning. Monsters are caught, monsters are getting rid of, but will it convince monsters in the making to give up on their blood-splashing ways ? History repeats itself, and it's been like this since the beginning of mankind, so I guess it's not about to change.

Which reminds me I didn't write a single word about James Brown's death. He had a rather peculiar physique, and when CD's first started replacing cassettes, my father bought a live album. Don't know why, but I never really went with it. His songs might be highly regarded by the musical community at large, but they ain't doing nothing for me. Which is not to say he wasn't an icon. I liked his dancing. He looked like a sweet guy, even after spending some time in jail for beating the crap out of his wife.

*

My friend Michel has been in Dubaï since the end of the summer, and judging by the steady stream of pictures he's sending us by email, he seems to have an awful lot of fun over there. Not a word about his work, ever, but his travel pictures are sure worth a look.

He has recently been in Oman's capital, Muscat. Oman is a country roughly the size of Yémen, sharing borders with Saudi Arabia & the United Arab Emirates, and surrounded by the Arabian Sea on its Eastern coast.

Sinbad is supposed to be originating from Muscat and from Michel's account, it looks like one hell of a port city; the streets are made of marble and the roofs of gold.

Of course, oil revenues is what made the country rich.

The territory is what we call a "sultanate", ruled by sultan Qaboos ibn Said, who has absolute power over every living soul in the country.

35% of the country's budget goes towards the military. The territory covers 309 500 square kilometers and hosts a population of 2 567 000. It was a British protectorate from 1891 to 1971.

The majority is of course muslim, but is culturally more "permissive" that your usual Middle East lair. English was officially adopted as second language and even though the country is mostly a big desert, it looks like a very interesting one. It is a timeless, ancient land with a rich arabic culture and buried secrets. Yours to discover, as they say.

This Native Love

2006-12-23T16:56:00.000-05:00

Last time we spoke, I was daydreaming out loud about several amazing discoveries that changed the way the general public sees anthropology. I have since then read about numerous "old-school" wildlife expeditions and came to be progressively fascinated by what we used to call the "gentleman adventurer", an extinct erudite human species who once combined knowledge with muscles and action - and quite often an impressive family fortune to overcome the joys of employment.

I have asked myself if this type of occupation could nowadays be possible. Is there anything left to discover ? These "gentlemen adventurers" always brought, everywhere they went, this very strange and occidental way to see things, and some kind of self-sufficient attitude convincing them that only THEY were competent, hence the renaming of "discovered" territories already inhabited by natives for generations.

General history seems to drastically quiet the role of insurgents. In Leonie Sandercock's MAKING THE INVISIBLE VISIBLE, we are exposed to the superchery of planning history as written, for years, by white male practicians. A history written "from the inside". A history that leaves no place for human heroes such as blacks, latinos, asians, gays, lesbians, children... A history, then, glorificating the all-powerful planning as a discipline that can't be wrong and always is implemented with the community's best interest in mind.

Some research about the Island of Madagascar, a patch of land roughly bigger than France and slightly smaller than Saskatchewan with its 587 040 square kilometers, have lead me to believe that it was THE place to be right now. Its ancient status as a French colony leaves most of its inhabitants now speaking French. Its climate is mediteranean, and it is home to an impressive array of endangered tropical animals species. They have their own plants and their isolation hasn't, so far, lead them to be propagated elsewhere in Africa. Most of the urban planning has yet to be done, since the taux d'urbanisation is 30,10%... and it is one of the world's poorest countries, with a PIB of 830$ US. Are they in need of a saviour ? I would think so.

More seriously, the country's incertitudes is slowing down its development. The most gorgeous diamonds in the world can be dug in its soil. They joined the Africa Union only in 2002. Most travelers expressing the will to explore the jungles & beaches of Madagascar receive a warning : there can be chaos. Some delays might slow you down. And you have to be "young at heart", according to Cortez Travel & Expeditions, a group specialised in bringing americans to the island.

Which destination will win, between the extremely remote Easter Island, the mysterious and mind-numbing Madagascar, or a southern enigma at the extreme tip of Argentina, Ushuaia, Tierra del Fuego ? Cast your votes.

*

I have to admit that the movies I watch aren't always picked with the highest level of carefulness. Many psychological reasons could be invoked, as well as pressure from the outside (that would be Miss Bijoux' impossible-to-fulfill appetite for cheap 80's slashers) and some errant thoughts from my part when the time comes to make the final choice.

It was at Boîte Noire then, once again, that I picked up a rather strange DVD : RETURN TO HORROR HIGH.

An IMDb user sums it up quite nicely : "Never heard of this. After seeing it I know why !". Sounds like the kind of tagline a communications agency could come up with, but it's basically what I thought too.

The story revolves around a group of filmmakers who, in 1987, rent out a school where some gruesome murders once took place, and shoot a movie about the incidents on the very same ground on which they took place. Of course, they start dying pretty fast. So there's... a film within a film, as the incidents are told after they happened, by one of the survivors. Different time & reality levels are mixed up, and this structural incertainty can keep you hooked for a bit but... it gets tiring.

There's almost no gore or nudity, and you KNOW that it is a requirement when shooting a slasher. Most of the actors try an over-the-top approach that doesn't quite prevent us from seeing it as lame. George Clooney is onscreen for a few minutes before getting hacked off. And the final surprise is so laughable and improbable that it puts the final nail in the coffin : that's it turd, you'll never be able to enter any DVD player, ever again.

Bill Froehlich, the director, didn't develop an impressive carreer after that. He wrote and co-produced some forgettable junk, and directed some of the FREDDY'S NIGHTMARES episodes in 1988.

*

Just as I swore to myself that I wouldn't watch a Full Moon crapfest in a few years, after seeing two in a month, there I was, pushing the VHS tape of THE DEAD HAVE THE LIVING ! into my VCR and slapping my own ass at the same time.

Is it a coincidence or is it just faith ? This movie deals with the same basic idea that RETURN TO HORROR HIGH : a group of filmmakers, isolated in a disaffected hospital, and shooting - guess what - a horror movie, suddenly find out that they soon are going to be horror movie characters themselves. And once again, an IMDb comment comes in handy to describe the final result : "The living hate this movie".

So it goes like this : the director & his crew find some kind of coffin with a dead body inside. The brightest idea they can come up with is to include the body in their movie, "to make it look more authentic". Of course they end up resurrecting the poor fellow - who's a Rob Zombie lookalike - as well as opening a door to another dimension. Some zombies start hunting them... and boredom ensues.

There are a couple of interesting references here and there - at one point, the main actor is told that he could easily be "the next David Warbeck" and nobody else than the director and his special effects right-hand man seems to know who the hell that is - and the ending is a direct reference to Lucio Fulci's THE BEYOND, but other than that, it's sloppy amateur film-making at its best. There's a sexy script girl played by Jamie Donahue, and it's too bad she had such a short carreer, but the redeeming factors stop right there.

This one was given to me by my ex roommate at one point, and I don't remember what he told me about it while actually handing out the tape my way, but when I recently told him that I had watched it, he grimaced.

Overlapping Dream Circuitry

2006-12-09T14:13:00.000-05:00

I had the most frightening dream last night. I was trying to enter UQAM by one of the underground passages but I was in the western part of town, and I didn't know exactly where the "Underground City" began. I took a chance and entered a dark tunnel that seemed to go east. There was a whole world waiting for me underneath the noisy surface of Montreal streets, a world filled with homeless zombies bumping into me by accident, and of friends I had to kill to get outta there. That was weird, and when I woke up, I half expected the dream to continue, and its horros to creep out of the surface of my subconscious.

*

I bought it some time ago, but I only started reading it at the beginning of December, and I have to say that Jared Diamond's COLLAPSE is quite the brain twister. Diamond, an historian, is interested in the way civilisations are formed and why they succeed, something he explored in his previous book GUNS, GERMS & STEEL. It was only logic that he'd study, next, the way some societies, consciously or not, completely vanish from the surface of the earth. A perspective that is once, I have to say, abysmally thought-provoking and frightening.

The reason why I unearthed his book from my busy and overstuffed shelves is that, for my URBANISATION, POPULATION & DÉVELOPPEMENT course at UQAM - drawing to an end, don't worry - I had to study a population movement anywhere in the world and its history, so I chose Easter Island's tragic decrease in inhabitants, a case that is particularly well documented in Jared's book.

Now, you know you'll hear from it soon enough, as I'll give you an overview of my conclusions as soon as my paper is done, but there are no words that can translate how gripping this book is. To hold in your hand a cold-blooded, minutious and detailed account of how several societies failed to survive and make it through to see today's developments is downright frightening, and might have a part to play in my recuring nightmares. I am not the kind of guy who's afraid of many things, but let's just say that global catastrophes and massive deaths are some of the things that make me cringe.

Picture my surprise, then, when I read about Thor Heyerdahl's gutsy expedition, started in 1947 on this raft :

This Norwegian adventurer traveled from South America to Polynesia, stopping on its way on Easter Island to study the possible reasons for its population's decline, and noting his observations in his trip's written account, KON-TIKI, a book published in 1948. The book would, of course, go on to become a best seller and make kids and adults alike dream about traveling the world and exploring lost tribes and remote areas.

Easter Island is the most remote of all Polynesian islands, located at 3 600 KM west of coastal Chile, and 2 075 KM est of Pitcairn Island. To say it's far from everything would be an understatement. Thor, je te lève mon chapeau !

*

Imagine living in a house like this on the Hollywood Hills...

Thank you, Richard Neutra.

*

When the time comes to sing you "happy birthday", I might as well stuff a shish kebab stick down your throat. That's how bad I sing overplayed festivity songs such as Christmas carols or other unbearable hymns. And that's what one guy is served for dinner in J. Lee Thompson's 1981 flick HAPPY BIRTHDAY TO ME.

Part of my current slasher frenzy, this Canada / USA co-production was viewed with delight, as the sleeve has forever haunted my youth and the movie always evaded me. This is the type of flick whose box you look at and say : "Maybe some other time", as if there was a possibility that the title might stay there, at your disposal, forever. But no, unfortunately, with the massive VHS clean-up that occured at the end of the nineties, we were doomed, and fucked. Lube-free.

It is perhaps worthy of noting that Mr. Thompson wrote the cript for Cirio H. Santiago's FUTURE HUNTERS (1986), a cheapo futuristic thriller set in post-apocalyptic times.

The movie starts off rather hysterically, with a pub scene followed by a car race. Some excited - and drunk - teens hop over a drawbridge as it's unfolding, a blue Trans-Am (with Quebec license plates !) nearly not making it - and losing some parts of its hood in the process. A frightened girl runs away, and as the plot thickens we'll learn more and more about her, as she is the main character, coming back to a high end college after years off due to a brain surgery.

The main interest of this rather enjoyable slasher is the gruesome murder scenes, and the multiplicity of possible suspects. As the movie draws to an end, the killer is identified, but not its motives. And the conclusion is even more confusing, not solving anything. This is mainly due to the fact that while shooting, the crew had NO IDEA how it all would finish. They had to improvise an ending, and let me tell you they barely make sense.

It doesn't ruin anything, however; the brutality of every death scene, the lovely ladies posing as victims and the high end houses and cars all contribute to making this an extremely pleasant experience. Like swallowing coagulated blood through a straw.

Fast paced volte-face

2006-12-02T13:58:00.000-05:00

As this once famous band once sang, "Life is life". But life can be pretty hectic for a speed freak that doesn't need the pill to have his life go through in front of his eyes at full speed. When your cherished mornings in bed are shortened every day, when every single second of your week is tightly planned, and when you feel that exterior sources are controling your every move, I think it's safe to say that being "busy" is an understatement.

I moved on Tuesday night, after my shift at the office, and on Wednesday morning I had a presentation in one of my courses. The only problem being that one of our "teammates" never cared to show up. And there's so much stuff I have to set up in our new place that I feel like a puppet in a minefield. While throwing stuff out I stumbled upon some long-forgotten boxes filled to the brim with what I call "grosses pochettes" - gigantic old VHS boxes - and I was startled with how good the sleeves looked back then. You'd give your soul to see one of those movies on a day like this, but magically, shortly after inserting the tape in your VCR, the interest would probably die off. Back in the good old days, marketing was the shit, bro.

Emptying my enormous Ikea bookshelf has allowed me to realise how much crap I have accumulated over the years. Magazines of all kinds, books I am never going to read, vinyl I'll never, ever play in a set. The time has come to clean, my friends. If any of you is interested in getting a hand on some of my magazines (namely lots of issues of Le Monde 2 and Le Nouvel Observateur), just drop me a line and we'll try to arrange a pick up or delivery meeting.

*

I feel you'll like this confession. Once upon a time, I saw a Sokourov movie I absolutely enjoyed, at Ex-Centris : MOLOCH. So naturally, when TAURUS was screened during a New Cinema & New Media festival, a few years ago, I went. And when I saw that THE SUN would play at the Cinémathèque, I went. While I didn't enjoy THE SUN as much as the two previous entries of Sokourov's trilogy about power, I have to admit I was impressed every time with the cinematography, the atmosphere, the dialogues and the liberties he took with these true, larger-than-life tales. When I rented his "classic" MOTHER & SON, though, after learning that it was the first movie that got him noticed by the general public, I quickly started yawning. It maybe was the context or how I felt that day, but I fast-forwarded through most of it. How ironic, given that I have suffered countless american and european b-craps ! Bad mouths will find it highly unrealistic, since I am a big fan of Jess Franco's oeuvre, that I would have trouble going through a Sokourov.

And I must admit that it was pretty much the first time the "fast-forward fever" ever happened to me - not considering the disastrous INN OF THE DAMNED. But it would not be the last. Because I recently attempted to watch something called THE NAILGUN MASSACRE, and after spotting a few patterns in the 10 first minutes, fast-forward it was.

The story is simplistic - and exploitative : a girl gets raped by a few construction workers, and a few weeks afterwards they are "nailed" by somebody wearing a ski suit and a motorcycle helmet, carrying a nailgun, and pitiful one-liners. It gets pretty repetitive, and since the movie was shot in 1985, the only thing keeping me from stopping it was the hairstyles and the clothes that the characters had on. Texas fashion kills.

There are a couple of scenes that are pretty erotic, until the nailgun killer disrupts the action and puts an end to the fun. He shoots a hitchhiker in the shoulder and that makes him die. It's also the type of movie that seems to have been shot in the course of a day, because the characters are pretty much wearing the same clothes all the time even if the action is supposed to be spread over the course of a few days.

The flick was directed by Bill Leslie and Terry Lofton, and it seems to be the only movie they ever completed. It recently has been released on DVD, and unless you wanna waste your time laughing at bad performances and being bored by long, useless conversations, I would give you a friendly warning : stay away !

*

Have you ever thought you were losing your mind ? A couple of months ago, I was going through my movie shelves and I noticed a "grosse pochette" of Reginald Le Borg's PSYCHO SISTERS (also known as "So Evil, my Sister"), from 1974. I left it where it layed, and I continued my "researches". Then I saw it again, a few rows underneath. Turns out I had TWO original copies of the flick !

Don't ask me how it happened. Upon finding this out, I told myself that I would be well advised to watch it.

It's a rather interesting, and very hitchcock-ian thriller, about the relationship between two sisters. Things are never what they seem and we follow with interest as the story punches us in the stomach with incredible revelations. It's the story of two sisters, one who has recently lost her husband in a car crash, and the other one consoling her in her lovely beach house. The widow has visions of her dead husband and suffers from wild nightmares, and in the daytime she flirts with a surfer stud who happens to be a cop in disguise.

The pacing is fast, the actresses keep things interesting - mostly Susan Strasberg, who's extremely easy on the eyes - and the action shifts from serious to unvoluntary funny in a few places. Add to this a rather short running time, and some kind of nostalgia for the seventies, and you get what you didn't pay for : a worthy flick that you'll enjoy if you can find it.

*

I hear architectural news coming from St. Petersburg with a mix of excitement and amusement. Excitement because, well, after China opening to revolutionary design ideas, it's about time that another (ex) bastion of communism, namely Russia, lets dissidents in to fuck around with the cityscapes.

Rem Koolhaas has moved swiftly enough, last year, to get the chance to design and supervise a new addition to the legendary Hermitage museum. His methods & strong personality were layed out in a New Yorker article I read some months ago.

Now, always in St. Petersburg, there is an ongoing "controversy" about a new landmark project. Gazprom is sponsoring what's called "Gazprom City", a gigantic skyscraper that will be at least three times higher than the highest building sitting in town. Some laws on the maximal height of buildings are in place, but it's Russia, after all, so one can easily picture that those with the most money will simply have these laws changed. The city currently restricts, in that part of town anyway, anything over 157 feet from being built.

Some designs were proposed by six architecture firms, among them Paris' Jean Nouvel, and of course Rotterdam's OMA, Rem Koolhaas' everpresent lovechild. Those who won are London's RMJM, also known to have built the Scottish parliement :

Koolhaas' design is rather intriguing :

The protester's main concern is that a skyscraper would deface St. Petersburg's "horizontal" cityscape, who has never changed in 200 years. Sounds pretty retrograde to me, no ? If reserves like that would have been brought upfront during the construction boom of New York in the sixties, let's say, would we live in the same world today ? Is this a valid argument ? Insisting on preserving the past is not a very progressive attitude, to say the least.

Officials from the Russian government and close friends of Putin have spoken in favour of the project, specifying that its height might be reviewed. At 1299 feet high, the winning design could very well clash with the other structures in town, but what the hell, isn't that the point ?

Here are the RMJM design, the one designed by Daniel Liebkind, and the one proposed by Herzog & de Meuron :

Crowded House

2006-11-25T14:30:00.000-05:00

Is it just me, or is this city a bit too crowded ? The bus is full, it's time for some people to get off. When's YOUR stop ?

*

Henri Verneuil, a French director, was loved by his fellow director friends, as well as by the general public. He died of a heart stroke on Jan. 11th of 2002, but left us some unforgettable movies such as UN SINGE EN HIVER (1962) and PEUR SUR LA VILLE (1975). He began his career in 1950 with ON DEMANDE UN BANDIT, a comedy featuring Jean Carmet. It was the start of an atypical, yet highly popular filmography.

In 1984, he directed a less known gem titled LES MORFALOUS, starring Jean-Paul Belmondo as an irreverant legionnaire digging for gold in a war-torn Tunisian town. Not quite a comedy, not quite an action flick, it's almost as if it was a play that ended up on the big screen with tanks & guns in it. Much of the quality of the viewing exprience can be attributed to Michel Audiard, father of director Jacques Audiard and dialoguist extraordinaire. We could also blame a few good men's bonne humeur, because the players were not born yesterday : the late Jacques Villeret & Michel Constantin both shine in their own particular way. Another light comes from Marie Laforêt's (who also appeared in Claude Chabrol's MARIE-CHANTAL CONTRE LE DOCTEUR KHA in 1965, and in Georges Lautner's FLIC OU VOYOU in 1979, once again alongside Belmondo) gorgeous eyes. The female leads, in such mega-productions, were always easy on the eyes.

The events of Belmondo's adventures in LES MORFALOUS are always difficult to predict, and it's a pleasure seing them unfold with sparkling good humour, cracking one-liners, and a visual feast of white tunisian architecture and beige & green army gear. Taking place during WWII, there are the inevitable Germans, who are portrayed as half-evil, half-irresistible gentlemen. They might seem irresistible, but ther are not as easy-going as the movie itself, which is a testament to popular French cinema of the 80's, back when it was populist and fun, but still interesting for all IQ's.

*

E.B. Clutcher does not really exist. Back in the 80's, when Italians were starting to run out of ideas and the "American ideal" was at its prime, they were shooting numerous movies in the U.S.A. (Bruno Corbucci - with the Nico Giraldi series - and Enzo G. Castellari - with the "Extralarge" franchise - should have moved to Miami while they were at it) and changing their names to make them sound "less italian". Cultural travesty or not, it made it harder for movie fans to track down their favorite director's flicks when they were finally released on VHS.

So E.B. Clutcher is a pseudonym, used by the late Enzo Barboni (1922 - 2002) for his end of career productions, mostly shot outside of Italy. In 1987, he shot one in the American west with Terrence Hill as an optimistic cowboy, traveling the land with his faithful horse Joe Brown in tow. When his friend Moose, in prison for a while, asks him to take care of his 15 years old brat until he's 16, it's something he cannot refuse. He needs to go to some house on a big land in Arizona, and wait there until the time comes. However, a local developper, Lawson, wants to buy the land to exploit it, and so the battle starts between good and evil.

Terrence Hill & Bud Spencer movies pretty much always have the same themes, but it's still a pleasure to watch them beat the bad guys to a pulp. Good natured feeling prevail, and it's useful for the kids, as it teaches them a lot about life in general, with a few fart jokes here and there. The particularity here is that the movie stars Ross Hill as the boy Terrence needs to protect. Ross was the adopted son of the Hill's and he died in an accident in 1990. To see them together in a kind of "replacement father & son" buddy movie is touching once you know that.

The plot also features girls falling for terrence, and a more than friendly Amish community. It teaches universal love, and while it does so in a quite cheesy way, it's the initial intent that counts, no ?

Robert Vaughn (the Napoleon Solo of THE MAN FROM U.N.C.L.E.) briefly appears as the bad guy. Enzo Barboni would go on to direct only two more movies (his last one being SONS OF TRINITY in '95) before putting an end to his career, but we'll remember him for officially launching the Hill & Spencer duo with his TRINITY flicks in 1970 and 1971.

Getting my eyes back into their sockets

2006-11-20T18:28:00.000-05:00

It's while eating Turkish cookies provided by Caron that I am writing these words, a not-so-sure sign that I am slowly bringing my life back into normal pace. I had to make some choices, and among them an obvious one : to calm down. As a human being, I can only do so much, and even though I am not Nietzsche's biggest fan I, for a moment, must have thought I was superhuman.

I'm through with long lists of all my responsibilities, as I must not be the only one around here to suffer from the over-achiever syndrome. Let's just say that all the stuff I had to do couldn't fit inside a 24 hours day. There are some things that I had to drop. Regretfully, because I like being busy. Now that some of my time can be regained, I honestly hope this blog will stop suffering from my lack of care. It needs some life. Some color. Some mouth to mouth love.

I have two whole months of movies I've seen to narrate. I am not going to retrospect all that went on in the rest of my life, in case some of you care, but let's just say that these two months almost feel like two YEARS. When you do lots, time flies ! I have never understood people who complain that they have nothing to do or that they're "bored". Boring, yes. Boring to themselves and to the rest of the world. They should stick together and bore themselves to death. "I like to try everything at least once". I like to slap your ass at least twice. And a hundred million times if you scream.

*

I have watched several VHS tapes recently, in a continuous effort to get rid of them afterwards. I just think that since I have been, for years, hunting down these titles, and carrying them around every time I moved, I might as well do the extra effort of watching them before throwing them out. Not doing so would render all my past efforts useless. And my previous life as a movie geek aimless. That is why you might find, on this blog, several surprising or unusual titles. Bear in mind that I am an extremely perverse individual. And that if any of the titles I am discussing tickles your fancy, I'll be more than happy to hand out the tape to you if it still is in my possession when you finally do request it.

*

Tobe Hooper has not been known, lately, for his bright decisions. He may be in a difficult corner, forced to work on worthless junk for a living, but well, if he choses to do so, he exposes himself to criticism. There is a screening copy of his masterpiece, CROCODILE, that happened to be on a shelf that's exposed to the everyday glance, and so it had to happen that my eyes caught it, and made the tape slide into the crack of my VCR as if it flew there by himself.

The problem with most of the "big creature attacking not-so-innocent campers" sub-genre is that the creatures are usually not, because of the budget allowed to this type of production, scary or realistic. It makes the film campy, of course, but when there's nothing else than the bad effects to be made fun at, the "campiness" is the only thing left that's good, and even this is bad. So the CGI crocodile that stalks brainless teens here is kinda pathetic, as is the actor's coaching and their dialogues. This is basically the perfect example of a completely empty film based strictly on cheap entertainment, with no redeeming qualities. I wouldn't be surprised if there were sequels - lots of 'em.

There is not even a hint of sexual excitement in the teenager's adventures, as the actresses are rather average and don't show much. The males, though, are all muscular and hairless, and wear heavy make-up. Could it be that Hooper wanted to reverse the usual roles and incorporate male bimbos instead of female ones ? I doubt it.

Wasting Time in Style

2006-10-28T16:37:00.000-05:00

It's on shitty mornings like this that you realise what a waste your life is when it revolves around partying. How empty this whole "lifestyle" really is. I wouldn't go as far as pretending that the people I meet while clubbing aren't "real" friends, but let's just say that drinking and dancing isn't very productive when it comes to shaping tomorrow's world.

It can remain healthy when you go out once in a while, greeting faces you haven't seen in a while, toasting to their latest realisations. But when you see them more often than you see your own mother, it can become tiring. You start asking questions to yourself. Do you really love to dance that much ? Do you really dance at all ? Personally, I mainly just talk to people I "know", catch up, make plans for future parties, networking. As if I was too busy planning the future to enjoy the present. It's a turning wheel; will I ever be able to enjoy the moment ?

Some sleep has to be gained. Some reflections have to mature.

I wouldn't want to take a decision based on a bad hung over day, but my mood is really affected right now. It seems I am often doing lots of things I don't feel like doing, forcing myself, and it's not in my nature to do so.

I always took my time, all my life, to do things properly, and now that I'm constantly rushed because I take up too many responsabilities, I find out that time is way more valuable than money. And time is what I have lost. Do it proper or don't do it, but don't do too much.

From Disco to Psycho

2006-09-30T16:28:00.000-05:00

Voilà qu'un autre viaduc s'écroule à Laval ! Elle est belle, leur ingénierie accélérée ! Ont-ils une lacune d'inspecteurs municipaux ? Leur territoire municipal est-il trop grand pour être soigneusement entretenu ? Deux fois en cinq ans, faut le faire !

*

Il y avait longtemps que je n'avais pas vu un film de Raul Ruiz, cet exilé chilien qui travaille maintenant en France, et le fait de voir CE JOUR-LA m'a donné l'impression imprécise de retrouver un vieil ami érudit que j'avais perdu de vue.

Film helvétique (suisse, donc) du petit bonhomme, il s'avère être plus précisément une co-production avec la France, produite par son comparse de longue date, Paulo Branco. Datant de 2003, il met en vedette Elsa Zylberstein dans la peau de Livia, une simplette vivant dans un immense manoir, entretenue par son industriel de père (Michel Piccoli) et supervisée par son fidèle valet Trèfle (le toujours feutré Jean-François Balmer). Pour une obscure histoire d'héritage, quelqu'un cherche à l'éliminer, et engage pour se faire un type complètement timbré, enfermé dans un asile, Pointpoirot (Bernard Giraudeau).

L'imagerie ruizienne n'est pas vraiment au rendez-vous, mais on remarque tout de même pas mal de plans de caméra surprenants, qui jouent avec le focus et qui se positionnement devant des objets inusités. Le ton complètement absurde et les dialogues sans queue ni tête, pourtant débordants d'humour, sont au rendez-vous.

Avec un budget que l'on devine limité et un scénario qui n'est pas tout à fait pétri de logique, Ruiz parvient à réaliser un film d'une grande maîtrise visuelle qui, sans être son meilleur cru, contentera son public en attendant le prochain.

*

Le festival Spike Lee se poursuit ! Pas sur grand écran, malheureusement, mais dans le confort de mon salon nouvellement redécoré par Miss Bijoux, pièce où la lumière naturelle est devenue spectaculaire grâce à de nouveaux rideaux crème.

J'ai la tristesse de vous informer que, un peu à l'exemple de SHE HATE ME, le film JUNGLE FEVER, datant de 1991, n'est vraiment pas le plus réussi de tous les "Spike Lee joints". Tellement peu réussi en fait que je me demande si ça n'est pas le pire que j'ai vu jusqu'ici.

Tournant autour du thème du racisme - cher à Lee et à un peu toute l'Amérique, au fond - existant entres les diverses groupes ethniques qui se partagent tant bien que mal la ville de New York, JUNGLE FEVER nous présente Flipper (Wesley Snipes), un architecte qui a réussi, un type parfaitement heureux qui vit avec sa femme et sa petite fille dans un duplex de Harlem. Son frère (Samuel Jackson) est junkie et son père pasteur (Ossie Davis) fou de religion. Une jolie italienne nommée Angie (Annabella Sciorra) est un jour engagée comme assistante par sa firme d'architectes et l'inévitable se produit un soir : il se la tape. Attirance mutuelle d'une "race" vers l'autre, c'est apparemment un phénomène connu que le meilleur ami de Flipper (Spike Lee lui-même !) appelle "Jungle Fever".

Angie n'a pas une vie facile; elle habite dans un ghetto, avec son père et ses deux frères débiles et brutaux, et remplace la mère sous bien des aspects, entre autres culinaires : ils l'attendent toujours pour souper car sont eux-mêmes incapables de faire cuire quoi que ce soit ! Elle fréquente un Paulie, un jeune homme terrifié par l'autorité paternelle (son père : Anthony Quinn) qui n'a pas un futur éclatant.

Cette liaison, aussi passagère soit-elle, aura d'énormes répercussions sur leurs vies; seront étalés sur l'écran, comme un mélange indigeste de plusieurs confitures écoeurantes, les lâchetées intellectuelles de la plupart des personnages, qui ne luttent que quelques secondes avant de laisser leur mesquine humanité prendre le dessus.

Spike Lee insiste toutefois assez lourdement sur la division raciale entre les "cliques"; des italiennes expriment ouvertement leur dégoût en apprenant qu'Angie a couché avec un noir, et le père de celle-ci la bat sauvagement. Des policiers blancs attaquent Wesley Snipes car ils pensent erronément qu'il viole une caucasienne - avec laquelle il ne fait que "s'amuser" sur le capot de sa bagnole. Plusieurs généralisations peu flatteuses sont esquissées. Le monde - pour reprendre une métaphore ici d'actualité - est blanc ou noir.

On peut pardonner ces maladresses lorsque l'on considère que le film date de 1991; toutefois, un contenu un peu plus nuancé n'aurait pas fait de mal. On a l'impression que le scénariste entre dans un magasin de bibelots avec ses grosses bottes d'activiste. Il est à noter - hors propos - que Halle Berry apparaît ici dans la peau de la petite amie de Samuel Jackson, en "crack whore" insupportable, et que c'est là le premier rôle cinématographique de sa carrière.

Bobby Pratique son Hobby Dans le Lobby

2006-09-27T18:12:00.000-05:00

Pour certaines "créatures de la nuit" (lire : goths), la fantaisie ultime est le porno horrifique. Visionner un film d'horreur avec des scènes sexuellement explicites, ou alors un film porno avec des scènes horrifiques. On s'étonne à voix haute que le genre n'existe pas déjà; on s'étonne en fait à tort et à travers. Parce que le genre, lui, n'existe peut-être pas, mais il y a quand même certains films qui allient, avec un succès mitigé, le "meilleur des deux mondes". Et j'en ai trouvé un !

[Roulement de tambours]

HARDGORE. Quand même - avouez que ce titre n'est pas piqué des vers !

Les autres titres utilisés lors des quelques tentatives de distribution du film, depuis sa sortie initiale en 1974, ne sont pas trop moches non plus : "Horror Whore" et "Sadoasylum". Le film fut réalisé par Michael Hugo, qui a tellement aimé le résultat final qu'il n'a pas daigné pertinent de laisser son nom au générique.

Le synopsis est digne d'un Pulitzer : une nymphomane est internée pour que soient guéries ses tendances masochistes, mais elle est séduite par son infirmière dès le premier jour, et retrouve celle-ci la gorge tranchée une fois la nuit venue. Ce "schéma" se reproduira deux autres fois, sans beaucoup de variantes; une infirmière sera "brûlée" par un dildo, et l'autre euh... je ne m'en souviens pas. Car le film est loin d'être mémorable.

Notre nympho se rendra vite compte que l'asile est administré par des adorateurs du démon, qui participent à des orgies moyennement intéressantes et qui finissent toujours par tuer une jeune fille après qu'un homme masqué ait jouit. Une bite est sectionnée en pleine fellation, aspergeant de sang le visage de la demoiselle qui l'avait en bouche. Divers rituels sont accomplis. La touche "fast forward" est fortement mise à contribution. Le tout se termine de façon tragi-comique, au bout de 63 longues minutes.

J'aurais souhaité plus réussi...

Il est à noter que la musique psychédélique omniprésente peut être bien agréable, lorsqu'elle n'est pas couverte par les marmonnements agaçants du pseudo-démon qui se fait sucer les bras dans les airs. Et les actrices sont loin d'être des top models, croyez-moi !

*

Pour du cinéma diamétralement opposé, il ne faut pas aller chercher plus loin qu'à Hollywood. J'ai visionné il y a quelques temps - on me pardonnera donc certaines approximations et / ou imprécisions - le film KISS KISS BANG BANG et j'en ai obtenu exactement ce que je recherchais, c'est-à-dire du "mindless fun", qui offre cependant une structure narrative inusitée et un ton assez original merci.

Je ne résumerai pas l'histoire ici, il vous suffit de le voir vous-même, et je ne me souviens pas précisément de tout, mais il s'agit en gros de l'histoire vécue par un jeune homme (Robert Downey Jr.) d'une petite ville américaine qui, par un étrange concours de circonstances, se retrouve à graviter autour de la faune composée par les gros bonnets de l'industrie cinématographique de Los Angeles. Là, il tombe sur Michelle Monaghan (délicieuse) qui ne le laisse pas indifférent, et rencontrera aussi "Gay Perry" (Val Kilmer), un détective privé.

Il leur arrive des choses indicibles, et le ton de l'ensemble est plutôt enjoué. Les dialogues n'arrêtent jamais, l'action surgit de partout, et il ne faut pas relâcher notre attention de spectateur averti sous peine d'en perdre des morceaux.

Shane Black, le réalisateur (dont c'est le premier film), est aussi responsable des scénarios de tous les films de la série LETHAL WEAPON, ce qui explique en partie son sens du rythme. Mon avis, cependant, est qu'il aurait dû s'essayer à la réalisation bien avant aujourd'hui !

Time Flies & Then You Die

2006-09-26T16:30:00.000-05:00

You wanna know what I did on Sunday ?

I stayed home. All day. Got out to get some food, that's all. Helped Miss Bijoux install the curtains she bought for our lovely living room. Read an old edition of the Mirror, and the current edition of Hour. And Nightlife's May issue. You can find proof of all that in my recycling bin.

We also watched delectable movies and worked on a flyer for my upcoming redheads party at Academy, on Oct. 2nd. Lots of movies, but you'll hear about them when it's time, which means not now, because I am too busy, as usual.

*

You wanna know what I did on Saturday ?

It was rainy. I got up with a headache. Read Voir. Downloaded - illegally - some music off the web. Went to work on my bike and when I got there, I was 100% soaked. It was busier than usual - we get to work and expect to do nothing. Oh well, guess we gotta learn. Afterwards I went back home, made a few phone calls, found out there was nothing interesting to do, except perhaps go to this loft party Romeo Kardec invited me at, the only problem being that he was gonna DJ only at 3 AM.

Miss Bijoux decided that I'd help her install a new mirror in our room and our bed's base, a huge metal thing that was taking way too much space in our living room. Now it's under the bed. Installed.

Guess what ? Around 11:30, I was in my bed, sleeping.

*

You wanna know what I did on Friday ?

I woke up. Took it easy. Gave Sean Kosa a call at 10 to wake his ass up. Asked him to be at Carré St-Louis at 11. He got there at 11:15. He had brought a bathrobe. Very funny. We took some pictures next to the fountain, and then in a trashy alley, and then in a kid's playground not too far. Nice photo shoot. We then went to eat somewhere on St-Laurent, don't remember where exactly, but the food was pretty good !

Bought some headphones at Moog Audio. Ran into Jordan Dare in the street afterwards, and he told me that these Stanton headphones were crap. Oops. Didn't return them. I had to run.

Went to work. At 7, I was lucky enough to get the hell out of the office and head back home, where a pretty good meal was awaiting. Started drinking around 10. Vodka / Guru. Got out of my place shortly after 11 with Miss Bijoux, Mr. Bérêt & Mr. Finances in tow. I was DJ'ing at an UQAM party, for visual arts students, and was supposed to be on at 12. I was.

Beer was free for me, so I didn't mind asking for a few. People there didn't mind asking for special requests, and I didn't mind refusing them. That angered a few of 'em, of course, but it always does. The party was nice. There was a giant "Dollorama" pinata, that was smashed shortly after I began my set, which had the effect of litterally spraying hundreds of fake golden loonies made in chocolate. There were also vodka-soaked jello cubes but I didn't dare try 'em.

The party slowly died after 1:30 but I was paid until the end, so I stayed until 3 with a few enthusiastic dancers and had fun. Of course, most boys were young & clumsy, and most girls probably underage, but I wasn't there for the booty !

*

You wanna know what I did on Thursday ?

I got up VERY early to make sure I'd be on time for a visit to Benny's Farm, near Cavendish & Sherbrooke, with my "Pratique de l'Urbanisme : Expérience Étrangère et Contexte Québécois" course, at 9:30. I didn't make it, after all : I was drinking my coffee, showering really slow, and reading my emails, and I left the house at 9:15.

I went to Dollorama on St-Laurent with Miss Bijoux and we bought useful crap. Afterwards, we went to eat a quite enjoyable breakfast at "Le Grille-Pain", formerly the Toaster, victim of Quebec's language laws or self-censorship ? We were almost alone and the food was great. Miss Bijoux was on a roll and she biked with me to Centre Eaton, where we bought clothes. When we were done, we came back around St-Denis, and I headed to UQAM for my "Population, Urbanisation & Développement" course, where I proceded to drift off to sleep repeatedly.

After a nice meal at home, it was time to head back downtown for the premiere of JACKASS 2. Yes, I won tickets in a Mirror contest.

There were lots of jocks in the attendance, and it's worth noting that they're the core audience of this kind of spectacle. Have you noticed that, as opposed to most "extreme" sports, no emphasis is put on chicks in Jackass ? It's an almost exclusive crew of guys, they do their stunts, they get crazy, scatological, naked, and they're not afraid of intimity. They stick things up their bums, they drink horse cum, they eat shit, etc... I am not going to list all the crazy stuff they pull because it would be pretty long, and rest assured that even if I am spoiling some of the good sketches, I'm only giving out about 1% of the amazing things you'll see if you dare watch this.

Don't take your mom to see this, guys. And don't take your girl either. This is definitly not a "first date" movie. Unless you want the girl to see how fuckin' stoopid you are, that is.

Les Multiples Ironies de la Vie

2006-09-16T16:35:00.000-05:00

Pendant que je passe du temps au bureau dans le cadre d'un shift traditionnellement improductif, mes amis de DiskHo magasinent avec John Dahlback. Où est la justice en ce bas monde ?

Dahlback jouait à la Fonderie Darling hier soir, avec Jeff Grosse, Bender, Mateo Murphy & Sad Mafioso. Étrange party, le sentiment d'inédit étant probablement dû à l'ambiance qui se dégage de la Fonderie elle-même : massif, sombre, industriel. L'environnement visuel rappelait beaucoup les raves clandestins dans des entrepôts désafectés dans les années '90.

Pour certains membres du public, la soirée fut de courte durée. Un danseur extrêmement intoxiqué, qui accrochait tout le monde sur la piste de danse en titubant, vers minuit, est tombé en pleine face sur la piste de danse et s'est ouvert le front. La sécurité l'a sorti, et le gars est parti en ambulance. Il a fallu nettoyer le plancher à son point de chute tellement il a laissé du sang par terre !

La prestation de Dahlback a mis un certain temps à décoller mais a fini par prendre tout son sens vers 2h. Il n'a joué QUE ses propres productions - pourquoi se casser la tête quand on possède un catalogue comme le sien ? Son set s'est terminé avec deux remixes de Hugg & Pepp, et le degré de satisfaction générale était palpable. Il fut assez difficile de quitter le secteur et après quelques dizaines de minutes de marche, pendant lesquelles Mr. Finances a bu plusieurs gorgées de vodka pure comme si c'était de l'eau, MC et moi nous sommes éclipsé en taxi pour mettre un terme à cette nuit de débauche.

*

Jeudi soir, je jouais à la Casa Del Popolo avec Tranie Tronic et Sunbreaker. Gentille gig ! Je ne savais pas ce que ça allait donner, même si la promotion avait globalement été assez bien faite.

Tranie Tronic donne un spectacle assez déstabilisant, mais haut en couleurs. Chansons étranges, thématiques amusantes sur le flirt travesti, les jupes courtes et les hétéros qui idolâtrent les garçons en talons hauts. Dommage qu'il n'y ait pas eu beaucoup de spectateurs. La salle s'est quasi intégralement vidée après la fin du spectacle, me laissant un public composé d'une dizaine d'irréductibles, les seuls que je connaissais étant mes amis de Robeat et, bien sûr, Miss Bijoux.

[Miss Bijoux qui est encore une fois à Toronto pour y vendre ses créations au Clothing Show. Je n'ai pas pu l'accompagner pour de multiples raisons, professionnelles autant que récréatives, et je le regrette quasiment...]

Étrangement, pendant que Tranie opérait un changement de costume dans les toilettes de la Casa, un type au fond du bar a commencé à engueuler la barmaid pour on ne sait quelle raison, et a fini par lancer un verre derrière le comptoir en criant "Fuck you and fuck this place !" Un client l'a suivi dehors et ils ont commencé à se battre, et le type qui filmait le spectacle s'est précipité dans le vestibule pour immortaliser le tout. C'était assez absurde, comme moment.

Nuits paisibles à Montréal : 0
Violence : 3

J'espère que le match finit bientôt parce que j'ai envie de vômir.

17 Décembre 1992

2006-09-12T15:31:00.000-05:00

Secondaire 3. Début de mes jours de voyou léger. Auparavant, j'étais un voyou ultra-léger, coupe "Longueuil" à l'appui, avec une patch de Metallica sur mes jeans et de la rancoeur à n'en plus finir. Je suis heureux de rapporter que je ne me suis pratiquement jamais rendu au stade de voyou régulier.

D'après mon agenda scolaire de l'époque, récemment retrouvé dans ma collection de souvenirs encombrants et aussitôt jeté au bac de recyclage, j'épellais mon nom "Pier", ce qui dénote probablement une certaine confusion identitaire, ou un refus de me conformer au nom dont mes parents m'ont affublé. Comme si un nom altéré allait changer quoi que ce soit à qui je suis.

17 décembre 1992, donc. Voyage scolaire à Trois-Rivières. On s'en va jouer aux quilles. Dans un centre d'achats.

Le matin, avant de partir, j'achète mon comprimé d'acide - le premier d'une longue série - à un des voyous de l'école. Il sort un petit sac dans lequel reposent ce que je crois être les multiples fragments d'une même pillule et me glisse dans la main un morceau minuscule. C'est ça, mon trip ?! J'ai de gros doutes quant à l'effet d'une aussi petite chose sur un organisme biologique comme le mien. Doutes qui ne persisteront pas, bien entendu. Mais je ne dis rien, j'avale le comprimé, et je me dépêche d'embarquer dans l'autobus qui va nous amener vers le paradis des quilles.

Je me souviens d'un grand magasin avec un département des jouets immense, dans lequel je me suis attardé beaucoup plus longtemps que je ne l'aurais dû. Je me souviens aussi de ma paranoïa intense : je croyais qu'il était "écrit dans ma face" que j'étais gelé comme une balle, comme le veut l'expression consacrée.

En arrivant dans le salon de quilles, je me suis laissé convaincre de lancer quelques boules, avec mes Doc Martens 21 trous dans les pieds. Le personnel n'a pas trop apprécié et on m'a assigné des chaussures ridicules - chaussures que je porterais sans doute volontiers aujourd'hui ! Peu importe ce que l'on en dit, les trips d'acide sont toujours assez amusants, mais il est préférable de s'y mettre assez tôt dans la journée, sans quoi on ne dort pas trop bien.

*

Encore un gros week-end derrière moi. Il me semble ne pas trop avoir exagéré. Corrigez-moi si je me trompe ! Nous avons pu de visu constater, vendredi au Main Hall, l'effet d'une présence trop fréquente sur une scène aussi petite que celle de Montréal : il n'y avait pas foule au party de Thomas Von Party ! C'était, top chrono, la quatrième fois que je l'entendais en sept jours. Je suis parti assez tôt avec Mr. Moto qui en avait assez, et je suis allé me coucher.

Le lendemain, après le boulot, je suis allé avec Miss Bijoux manger de l'achigan chez ma mère, et le souper fut tellement excellent qu'on était de retour chez nous de justesse pour recevoir quelques potes pour une beuverie pré-Voyeur.

Du Voyeur lui-même je n'ai pas conservé une foule de souvenirs, et il appert que je ne suis pas le seul, après quelques consultations. Disons seulement que le set de Roméo Kardec était solide et que celui de Jordan était intense, comme d'habitude, mais que je suis loin d'être en état de dresser une liste des chansons qu'il a joué !!

Dimanche fut un instant de repos ultime, pimenté de quelques repas démesurés et d'un film digne de mention.

*

Il arrive que Woody Allen, de temps à autre, nous abreuve d'une oeuvre étonnante, atypique, et dans laquelle il ne joue pas. Il n'y a qu'à penser à SWEET & LOWDOWN, une savoureuse farce douce-amère sur un personnage fictif fortement inspiré de Django Reinhardt et interprété par Sean Penn. Ou CELEBRITY.

MATCH POINT surprend. Tourné à Londres, il semble de prime abord être une observation un peu longuette des relations adultères de la bourgeoisie anglaise. Peu à peu, cependant, le récit progresse et devient une étrange - et hautement maîtrisée - variation sur CRIMES & MISDEMEANORS. Le crime parfait existe-t-il ? Un criminel peut-il rester impuni ? Est-il possible de vivre paisiblement avec un meurtre gratuit sur la conscience ? Quel homme sain d'esprit peut résister à Scarlett Johanson ?

Jonathan Rhys-Meyer excelle dans le rôle d'un mari libidineux et tourmenté, et on ne peut pas le blâmer : Johanson, toute en courbes, ferait vraiment exploser n'importe quelle braguette ! Avec sa voix de chambre à coucher et sa féminité difficilement dissimulable, il serait impensable pour le spectateur mâle moyen de se scandaliser devant le manque de fidélité de Rhys-Meyer.

Le ton du film ne tombe jamais dans le tragique et il n'y a pas vraiment de longueurs - chaque scène est ingénieusement imbriquée au récit et a son utilité dans la construction du maître. La bourgeoisie n'y est pas ridiculisée et Allen semble presque cautionner les agissements de son personnage, qui ne se verrait pas revenir à un train de vie normal si son couple venait à se détériorer.

Je n'ai personnellement jamais détesté un film du sympathique binoclard juif, mais il y en a que j'apprécie davantage que d'autres, et ce MATCH POINT fait partie de la longue liste.

The Sound of my Liver Crying

2006-09-08T17:25:00.000-05:00

It's been a hell of a week. And an inferno of a week-end, of course.

Might explain my lack of manifestation. My "disinterest" in all things rigorous. My brain is still, to this day, bathing in vodka. My body aches, and my chronic back pain, which only awakens when I'm really exhausted, has been back all week like a bitch. You might say I'm wounded. My heart is bleeding, and my liver is crying.

Is fun, in your life, more important than being in good shape ? I'm not saying that my health is in danger, or that I will never recover from the week-end. But I've been hit pretty bad. Stopping the madness was difficult. In fact, I had to stop when there was either no money left, or no booze left. Tough luck. Boozer.

I've had a good time, and on Sunday, against all odds, the party turned out to be quite explosive at Pas-Sages. There was a dancefloor, and we sure needed one. Joël B turned 25 in a classy fashion : with drunken friends and good music. As for me, let's just say it's hard not to drink until you fall down when the only thing stopping you from getting another free drink is the next mix you have to turn in.

*

I had some time to watch movies, during all this madness, and I did. If I remember correctly, we began with RUNNING SCARED, the trashiest and most violent piece of crap I've seen in a while. Directed by Wayne Kramer - me neither - in what seems to be an attempt at revealing his fascist side to the world, this is a very stinky movie indeed.

It's about Joey Gazelle (pretty boy Paul Walker, who seems specialised in "brainless" movies - think THE FAST & THE FURIOUS), a small time crook who has to hide a gun used to kill dirty cops. Simple task ? Not when your neighbor's son steals the gun from your basement and goes on to shoot his stepfather and run away ! So get this : if Joey doesn't find the gun, the police will, at one point or the other, and his life will then be fucked because, well, his criminal friends will not really like it.

One point goes to the direction : fast, delirious, and out of control ! The shooting scenes are especially painful to watch. And the tension never really lets go : there's a child at stake here ! Everything is thrown in for good measure : sports, muscle cars, violence, hot chicks (Idalis DeLeon, Six Feet Under's "Sofia", plays a well rounded ho'), gangsters & cops.

The dialogues are ridiculous. When asked who he is, a pimp says : "I'm a mac daddy pimp !". Joey, to a small russian boy in his car : "Why the hell are you listening to russian music ?! You're an american !". You get the idea...

This is brainless action at its worst. You have to see how the director fades to a deployed american flag during the climax of the movie. Dishonest, xenophobe and downright outrageous, this movie is not for the easily impressed.

*

On the other hand, Robert Morin's latest, QUE DIEU BÉNISSE L'AMÉRIQUE, is quite a good surprise. Not really a surprise in the sense that I knew it was going to be good, but the good humor and offbeat rythm is quite welcome.

Those of you who have seen his previous one, LE NEG', know that Morin, after all these years experimenting, has finally found his "style", a slick & personal take on the world surrounding him. The basic plot of QUE DIEU... is quite simple : during one day, on Sept. 11th '01, about 10 persons living on the same suburban street will be faced with a ruthless killer eliminating some sexual predators still living in the area.

A quiet, clean neighborhood, and people who never stop to talk to each others : that's what we get. Gildor Roy playing the dumbest cop you'll find on this side of the Atlantique ? Check. Gaston Lepage with a mullet ? Check. Characters with dark secrets ? Check.

It's a pleasure seeing all this unfold. The heartwarming conclusion is not very typical of Morin. Could he have found peace with the world ?

Judging by the hysterical documentary in the DVD's extras, "La Méthode Morin", that's far from being the case. I won't say too much about it but let's just say that this is the most incredible "making of" I've seen in a while. My advice ? Don't walk to rent it, use a very fast car or run, because this is definitly a must-see !!

Quiet Days Before the Storm

2006-09-01T18:58:00.000-05:00

There is still time for me to send a dispatch through the web before the bombs start falling. I went downstairs during my first break, at 4, and bought the biggest bottle of Smirnoff I could find. I'll definitly need it in the coming days.

My itinerary is that of somebody who has lost his mind. Or somebody being very fuckin' busy. Tonight, at 9, I'm getting out of the office, only to come back on Tuesday, at 9 AM sharp. I am going home to eat, shower, and at 10 my guests will start pouring in, around the same time I'd say I'll pour myself my first drink. Around 11 we're heading out for SAT, where Thomas Von Party & Boys Noize will kick the shit out of all the dancers in the room. Bring the pain !

Tomorrow, if I can get up early enough, there's always work to be done on personal stuff. At 5 we have a movie to catch at FFM, something called "La Cathédrale", which seems to be a Swiss / Ile Maurice co-prod. Talk about weird. When the night comes, it's vodka time again, and we're going to our second home : the SAT. Chromeo will perform there. We'll also check out the MEG's French Connection showcase at Métropolis, where on top of Ellen Allien & Apparat playing, Busy P, Sebastian, Uffie & friends will perform. Ouch.

On Sunday, daytime will be sleep time, and we might eat breakfast somewhere, if we're not too blinded by the light to go out. When the night comes - and it comes a lot these days, believe me - it's party time yet again. Our friend Joël B is celebrating his 25th anniversary and invited me to DJ at Pas-Sages. My friend Mr. Finances, a.k.a. Expat, a.k.a. Yugo, will share the decks with me. Night pollution, drinks galore, socio-rama and time flying high : we're on !

Monday's time to head to Piknic, where the Turbo team yet again destroys everyday life with a dose of extraordinary. Von Party, Jordan Dare and fuckin' Steve Bug will perform ! In case it rains, the event takes place at SAT, and in both cases, we'll have a fuckin' blast !

*

My friend Mr. Bérêt, a guy you have come to know through my posts but that you actually have never met, except for a select few, is suffering like hell right now. He's quite the "athlete" type; hardbody, rides his bike even during winter, and an ex raver who energetically dances his way through life.

While his current girlfriend is in Japan, he took it easy, having a few mexicans stay at his place to help pay the rent, and going out a lot more than he used to when his couple wasn't geographically parted. One night he went out and drank a lot. Let's just say that it was at Academy last week. His friend from BC had come to visit him and he was happy. Vodka-happy. On the way back home, while riding his bike on his own street, a few meters from his place, he closed his eyes.

Full speed.

Because he felt good.

He slammed into a car and twisted his knee. Now he has to walk with canes and will not be able to work for six weeks. Dancing is verboten, and he'll probably have to do some physio to recover.

Let's share a thought for him and hope he recovers fast !

*

It's been a fun summer. But on Wednesday, I am attending my first course of the semester, and things will probably be way more hectic from then on.

My four courses and 25 hours of office work a week will be added to my evergrowing hobbies. I am also starting a new night on Mondays at Academy and I am planning on putting a lot of energy there. I wanna have some nice guests, dammit ! So on top of my blogs, the magazines to which I contribute and ordinary life, I don't know if there will be time for me to breathe.

This blog might suffer, but who knows ? I might be able to keep the flow alive after all.

I am superhuman, signing off.

Extension du Domaine de la Pute

2006-08-30T15:56:00.000-05:00

On m'a récemment fait un commentaire comme quoi il y avait trop de "science" dans mes élucubrations, et pas assez de pornographie. C'est un fait avec lequel je suis bien d'accord.

Lorsque j'ai commencé ce blog, l'an dernier, à la mi-août, mon but était clair, et fort peu louable : je voulais narrer, sous pseudonyme, mes aventures sexuelles dans le délirant monde du célibat. C'était en quelque sorte une entreprise de catalogage minutieux de mes rencontres galantes, une façon de laisser mes amis proches se tenir eux-même au courant, et un espèce de "relevé" pornographique de mes conquêtes. On dira ce que l'on veut, mais quand on multiplie les feux d'artifice avec diverses demoiselles de tout aussi diverses provenances, on finit par perdre le fil.

Instrument de rigueur, donc, et "biographie" de ma libido gallopante. Toutefois, comme mes lecteurs réguliers ne sont pas sans le savoir, mon appétit sexuel s'est quelque peu calmé le 13 octobre 2005, quand j'ai fait la rencontre de Miss Bijoux. Ce fut un coup de foudre violent, qui m'a presque scié en deux, et qui m'a conduit à congédier toutes mes FWB ("friends with benefits") aussi couramment appelées "fuckfriends".

Exit la pornographie, donc, et je fus introduit aux joies de la discrétion. Mon pseudonyme d'Allan Oates aux oubliettes, je redevins Clifford Brown, ce bon vieil alias faisant davantage référence à Jess Franco qu'au célèbre jazzman.

Cette tournure, inévitable, et que certains déplorent, ne m'a depuis pas souvent permis de traiter de pornographie.

Tout d'abord parce que c'est quand même une tribune "publique" et avec laquelle je suis facilement associé, et ensuite parce que j'ai un peu peur que des yeux chastes s'égarent entre mes lignes et soient effrayés par mon "libéralisme". Bien que je me foute éperduement de ce que les gens peuvent penser de moi, on n'est jamais à l'abri d'une campagne de salissage. Et autant j'aime choquer... autant j'aime bien conserver quelques-unes de mes opinions pour moi. Pas par peur de la controverse, bien entendu; davantage par réserve.

*

Pour en revenir à la pornographie, je me suis toujours posé certaines questions. Questions morales, questions essentielles. Car j'ai moi-même - ne riez pas - un temps contemplé la possibilité de tourner mes propres productions, et d'y apparaître. L'aspect "prostitution" de la chose ne me répugne nullement; j'ai toujours cru à la responsabilisation extrême de l'individu, et chacun est selon moi maître de son corps. Qu'une junkie monnaie ses maigres fesses pour se piquer, c'est son problème.

Je ne suis donc pas "bloqué" au niveau moral. Payer des jeunes filles pour qu'elles exécutent devant une caméra un rituel auquel elles se prêtent volontiers dans le confort de leur foyer ne me semble pas incorrect.

Toutefois, si les paroles s'envolent et les écris "restent", la vidéo, elle, reste encore plus. Et la diffusion de la plupart des scènes tournées par des amateurs, de nos jours, se fait par le biais d'internet. Médium de communications auquel TOUT LE MONDE a accès, en partant du simple morveux de 12 ans jusqu'à la grand-mère dans le vent de 89 ans, de l'Alaska au Kuwait. Si une jeune fille est filmée en train de se prendre une bite dans le cul, et qu'un gentleman se vide ensuite les couilles dans sa face, tandis qu'elle sourit et envoie la main à la caméra, peut-être que le type en train de se branler devant son écran est son père. Ou son oncle. Ou son mari.

Les moeurs de notre société ont peut-être progressé, certes, depuis la période qu'on appelait "Grande Noirceux", mais je ne crois pas qu'une candidate au poste de vice-président de la Commission Scolaire des Haut-Vents obtiendra le poste, si un des membres du comité d'embauche se souvient soudainement que la raison pour laquelle la demoiselle lui dit quelque chose, c'est qu'elle était la star de "Laval Bukkake 23" qu'il a loué à son club vidéo la semaine dernière...

Il y a aussi bien sûr différents degrés d'intensité et des thématiques variées dans les "films de cul", et je le sais car j'ai été le malheureux gérant du Hollywood Vidéo Dépôt pendant presque trois ans, au début du siècle. Certains préfèrent un petit "film pour couples" inepte avec une histoire à dormir debout et des scènes de fesse à peine plus osées qu'une production diffusée à Bleu Nuit, et d'autres salivent dès qu'il y a du sang et des fluides corporels qui jaillissent jusque dans la lentille de la caméra. Chacun ses goûts.

Le consommateur traditionnel, lui, se situe à mi-chemin de ces tendances, et s'il a envie d'une belle bite il loue des films bi ou avec transsexuels, mais ne va jamais jusqu'au bout de la "gaieté". Denial, quand tu nous tiens...

*

Une autre tendance assez amusante : la médiatisation des porn stars. C'est soudainement une profession très "glamour" que de faire du double anal ou d'être la star d'un gang bang. Les siliconées de Californie se font offrir des contrats en dehors de leurs champs de compétence. Des stars du X apparaissent dans des productions hollywoodiennes. Des réalisateurs porno s'attaquent à de "véritables" films. Et en France, un réalisateur "mainstream" ne voulant pas se salir tourne des X sous pseudonyme : Martin Cognito.

On a longtemps cru qu'il s'agissait de Gaspar Noé, mais on s'est rapidement rendu à l'évidence : Noé ne ressentirait guère le besoin de se dissimuler s'il se lançait éventuellement dans la porno !

Oui, les moeurs s'allègent, des collégiennes en folie idolâtrent SHANE'S WORLD et tentent leur propre version, mais on n'en est pas encore au point où des adolescents discuteront ouvertement de leurs activités sexuelles avec leurs parents, au souper, en regardant une compilation de blowjobs parce qu'ils trouvent les nouvelles trop plates.

Pêche aux Motards

2006-08-29T18:51:00.000-05:00

J'ai toujours trouvé fort amusant le concept des "pantoufles de ciment". Pas amusant dans le sens où j'aurais envie d'essayer un plongeon au fond du St-Laurent, mais bon, on a déjà vu une façon moins originale de disposer d'un corps, non ?

Les méthodes expéditives de "nettoyage" qu'emploient les membres de la mafia ou de quelques bandes de motards criminalisés sont certes grotesque, mais font parfois preuve d'une ingéniosité remarquable. Combien de fois a-t-on entendu parler de corps coulés dans le béton d'un édifice fraîchement érigé, ou dissous dans l'acide, ou découpés en d'innombrables morceaux et dispersés à touts vents ?

Sans que ça soit une coïncidence, je lis ces temps-cis un bouquin de Normand Lester et Guy Ouellette, sobrement intitulé "Mom". C'est, croyez-le ou non, la biographie non autorisée de Maurice "Mom" Boucher, un gros bonnet qui est, à ce que je sache, encore en prison aujourd'hui. Et c'est assez intéressant sous plus d'un aspect, notamment dans la description pstchologique de Boucher : en gros, un moron fini. Peut-être n'en suis-je qu'aux débuts du personnage, effectivement, et que ce dernier va soudainement devenir civilisé au détour d'une page, mais j'en doute.

C'est publié aux Intouchables. On n'aurait jamais deviné...

Dans le même ordre d'idées, j'ai revu hier HOCHELAGA, de Michel Jetté. C'est pas parce que je n'ai pas pu supporter HISTOIRES DE PEN qu'il fallait que je m'abstienne de revenir sur les lieux du crime.

Ces lieux : Cinéma Tops, Laval, 2000. Mes potes et moi avons décidé d'aller voir ce "film de motards" quelques semaines après sa sortie initiale, dans ce palace du film à 2.50$ où les spectateurs agissent souvent comme s'ils se trouvaient dans leur salon et dont la devise est : "It pay's to wait". L'apostrophe n'est pas de moi : il figurait vraiment sur leur banière à l'époque, et j'ai bien peur que ça soit encore le cas aujourd'hui.

HOCHELAGA, donc, se déroule sous nos yeux. L'histoire - bien racontée - de l'ascension d'un "Striker" au sein des Dark Souls, des bikers d'Hochelaga qui ont l'âge mental d'un garçon caractériel de sept ans. Le striker, c'est Dominic Darceuil, qu'on n'a pas beaucoup vu par la suite. Son meilleur ami, le skinhead Noze, est interprété par Jean-Nicolas Verreault, avec un maniérisme ne différant guère de ses rôles de simplet dans LA LOI DU COCHON ou encore DANS L'OEIL DU CHAT. Côté motards, beaucoup de sales gueules, dont un Deano Clavet en chef de bande.

Le film se veut informatif, nous renseignant sur les codes et habitudes des motards, et sur leurs traditions. Cette obstination sur l'appartenance aux "couleurs" - leur blason - reflète un autre problème de société, le "patriotisme aveugle". Que ça soit à une religion - les innombrables conflits au Moyen Orient, ça vous dit quelque chose ? - un pays - des américains s'offusquent qu'on brûle leur drapeau et vont jusqu'à tuer pour "l'honneur" - ou à une équipe sportive, certaines allégeances peuvent s'avérer discutables.

Ainsi, le spectateur apprendra qu'il peut être risqué de côtoyer de méchants garçons, et qu'il est facile, quand on manque de perspective, d'être manipulé dans la mauvaise direction. Une leçon qui n'a rien de nouveau, en somme.

*

Je faisais récemment référence à Troma en parlant de SEIZURE, et ça m'a probablement porté malchance. J'ai retrouvé ma VHS de BLOOD HOOK, intitulée "Pêche Humaine", et je me suis dit qu'un slasher débile ne faisait jamais de tort à personne. Wrong.

Peut-être est-ce dû au doublage, mais ce film m'a quasiment fait frire le cerveau. Je me prenais à souhaiter très fort, en cours de visionnement, que ça se termine le plus vite possible. Oui, c'est pénible. Et long. Et mauvais, très mauvais. Pensez-y : un groupe d'adolescents vient passer ses vacances dans un bled perdu du Wisconsin pour participer à un concours de pêche au brochet. On pourrait avoir mal au coeur à la seule lecture de ce synopsis, mais c'est pire que ce que vous croyez.

Les dialogues n'arrêtent jamais. Les personnages ont TOUJOURS quelque chose à dire. Le coupable que la direction du film nous suggère de soupçonner est sans cesse innocenté, nous donnant donc immédiatement un autre individu à surveiller. Il y a beaucoup de personnages, et la plupart d'entre eux ont des comportements excentriques et inexpliquables. Les événements semblents'étaler sur plusieurs jours, mais le tout est extrêmement confus. Les repères temporels ne nous sont donc d'aucun secours quand on essaie de glisser un peu de logique là-dedans.

Le film vaut le coup pour le brochet géant... et c'est tout. Peut-être avez-vous envie d'explorer ce que peut donner la débilité à l'état pur ? Si c'est le cas, BLOOD HOOK est pour vous.

*

Mon copain Bruce Benson & moi organisons un lancement officiel pour notre blog Mirrorballs & Mirrorshades, et ça aura lieu le 6 septembre à la soirée Coconutz du Lola Lounge.

Je me suis collé à la réalisation d'un flyer amusant, dimanche soir, en revenant d'un week-end bien arrosé à Ottawa. Une marche sous la pluie m'a conduit jusqu'à l'épicerie, où j'ai acheté des noix de coco. Le nom du party : Cocoballz & Mirrornutz. Miss Bijoux et moi cherchions donc à recréer une impression de fête avec ces simples éléments : des noix de coco et des boules disco.

Notre "nature morte" une fois en place, il fallait couper une noix en deux pour y insérer les mini boules disco empruntées à Mr. Hairdresser. Je me suis muni d'un couteau relativement efficace, et j'ai commencé à scier. Vous auriez dû voir ça ! Il aurait fallu être Hercule pour en venir à bout dans un délai raisonnable !! Une fois la noix sciée, je me suis rendu compte qu'elle était à moitiée pourrie. Métro Bigras de la rue Gauthier : là où les fruits sont trop chers... et pas bons !

Nous avons voulu insérer dans l'image des glowsticks "de party", ayant la forme de "drink shakers", mais comme j'avais acheté ces bestioles deux ans auparavant, nous n'avons bien sûr obtenu aucun résultat en tentant de les allumer. J'avais aussi des sparklers datant de la vieille école qui brûlaient après cinq minutes de chauffage à la flamme d'un briquet. Ceux que Miss Bijoux a trouvé dans son coffre à sortilèges brûlaient plus vite que leur ombre.

Nous sommes quand même parvenus, au prix de multiples efforts, à atteindre un résultat - flou - respectable. Reste à savoir, maintenant, si le party que promouvoit le flyer va être réussi !

Embarré Dehors

2006-08-25T18:47:00.000-05:00

Il m'arrive d'être assez épais. Prenez hier soir, par exemple. Après une soirée complètement débilitante au bureau, je me suis dépêché de rentrer à la maison en vélo, et en arrivant chez moi j'ai réalisé qu'il me manquait certains ingrédients pour le souper que je projetais de me cuisiner.

J'ai donc posé mon au salon, foutu mon sac par terre, et empoigné mes clés pour sortir. Toutefois, juste avant d'ouvrir la porte, je me suis souvenu des multiples bouteilles de bière vides qui traînaient à la cuisine, et j'ai donc reposé mes clés pour aller les chercher. J'ai retraversé l'appartement en entier, et je suis sorti, tout simplement. Depuis quelques temps nous avons une nouvelle porte qui se ferme et se barre automatiquement dès que l'on sort. Je me suis donc rendu jusqu'à la rue et j'ai réalisé que j'étais en train d'oublier mon porte-feuille.

En faisant volte-face pour aller le chercher, une sirène alarmante a retenti dans ma cervelle et j'ai compris la merde dans laquelle je m'étais foutu : je n'avais même pas amené mes clés !

Avec Miss Bijoux à l'extérieur de la ville et mon propriétaire en vacances jusqu'au 1er septembre, ça me faisait une belle jambe. Je me retrouvais sans porte-feuille, sans clés, sans rien, sur la rue, avec pour seul compagnon mon manteau de cuir. J'ai commencé par marcher jusque chez Mr. Moto, mais il n'était pas là. Une jolie jeune fille que je n'ai pas tout de suite reconnue m'a ouvert la porte. Elle m'a informé que Mr. Moto était à Québec, que son coloc était en camping on ne sait trop où, et qu'elle s'apprêtait à sortir. Elle m'a quand même laissé passer quelques coups de téléphone et me suis rendu chez Mr. Hairdresser.

Je n'ai pas pu sortir le recyclage ce matin...

Il m'a fait une bonne sandwich, et on est allé acheter de la Sapporo pour regarder LES DEUX ANGLAISES ET LE CONTINENT de François Truffaut. J'ai dormi sur le divan et j'ai pris une longue marche pour venir au bureau aujourd'hui. Je me suis nourri toute la journée au BBQ corporatif - drôle de coïncidence ! - et j'en ai ma claque des burgers à moitié cuits. Quand je rentrerai chez moi ce soir, Miss Bijoux sera revenue et je serai soulagé.

*

Parlons-en, de ces DEUX ANGLAISES ET LE CONTINENT ! Truffaut adapte en 1971 un roman de Henri-Pierre Roché dans lequel le beau Claude va passer un été en Angleterre, chez deux soeurs, et où il tombe amoureux de Murielle, la rousse. La narration nasillarde est assurée par Truffaut lui-même, un fait plutôt amusant qui vaut son pesant de cacaouettes.

Toutefois, le "director's cut" dure 2h10 et en paraît trois. On a droit à la valse surannée des sentiments d'un trio, et tout cela est immensément "daté". Lorsque les vues du personnage principal (interprété par un Jean-Pierre Léaud plutôt pincé, mais toujours aussi sympathique) sur l'amour "libre" interviennent dans le paysage, il est déjà trop tard : on a depuis longtemps fait une surdose de jupes longues et de corsets.

Film d'époque poétique et somptueusement filmé, qui suit de près les tourments amoureux de ses protagonistes, LES DEUX ANGLAISES ET LE CONTINENT est bercé comme presque toujours chez Truffaut par la musique de Georges Delerue, qui y tient un petit rôle.

Il est ironique de penser que Truffaut, se fâchant dans les années '60 contre le "cinéma de papa", ait pu tourner quelque chose d'aussi "noble" et intemporel. Le film aurait pu être tourné à n'importe quelle époque tant il est lumineux et universel. Peut-être que ces questions de relations entre anglais et français, séparés par la manche et la barrière du langage, sont intéressantes pour les européens, mais elle m'ont paru un peu fastidieuses, presque autant que la bourgeoisie manifeste des personnages, qui relèguent leurs soucis financiers au premier plan.

C'est donc en face d'un très "beau" film que l'on se retrouve ici, mais on reste déçu que Léaud n'y apparaisse pas dans la peau d'Antoine Doinel, que le sujet ne soit pas "contemporain", et que ça nous paraisse si long !

It Happened Here

2006-08-24T19:23:00.000-05:00

Val-Morin, 1974. You never would have thought.

With the recent release of WORLD TRADE CENTER, a movie I did not dare seeing, after reading what the media had to say about it, Oliver Stone has resurfaced in the cinematic landscape. Forgotten after his last few duds (ALEXANDER, anyone ?), Mr. Stone, whose modest debuts in Hollywood were done as an actor, appeared in THE BATTLE OF LOVE'S RETURN (1971), the second movie Lloyd Kauffman ever directed, and the first feature to be produced by the now legendary Troma studios.

Stone wrote a few worthy screenplays, including MIDNIGHT EXPRESS in '78 and SCARFACE in '80. He became a director in 1974, shooting his first full lenght right here in Val Morin, Québec. The beautiful house near the lake, in the quiet Laurentides, was the perfect setting for the story about to be told.

Edmund Blackstone (Jonathan Frid) is a writer working on a horror title intended for children, and his wife Nicole (Christina Pickles) has invited some guests for the week-end in their country retreat. Intrigue and games start almost right away. The guests are from various social backgrounds, and they all know each others pretty well. The Hughes (Joseph Sirola & Mary Woronov) are rich, but the Kahn's (Anne Meacham and Roger de Koven) are not. Troy Donahue is a rocker trying to bang Mr. Hughes' wife, while the rich man hits on the maid.

The first night, strange things happen, and the guests, once they retire inside the home, feel spied on. A small face appears at the window. The maid disappears. All of a sudden, a French-Filipino midget (the delirious Hervé Villechaize) breaks a window and fights off the guys. The Queen of Evil (Martine Beswick) appears with her big black bodyguard and tells them, in substance, that at dawn they'll be dead except for one survivor.

We might not get it at first, because the "answers" we're seeking do not come right away, and to be honest the whole thing does not make a lot of sense. Things will slowly be explained, but when the ending credits roll on, there are still some questions in the air...

Most of all : why ? Having characters come to life can be interesting, but there's usually at least a partial explanation. Here, the tormentors just appear and do their job. Martine Beswick is sexy as hell, and Villechaize's accent is loads of fun - especially when he says : "You fancy yourself superior to me ? I'll deal with you later !"

Yes, most of the persons killed do appear self-centered and act with questionable ethics, but do they deserve death ? Was Stone looking for an excuse to use the eternal contrast offered by a giant and a midget ? Was this Canada - USA co-production considered worthy at the time ? How can you compare the guy who directed SEIZURE back in the days to the "renewed" Oliver Stone who directed political opus like JFK & NIXON ?

*

Louiseville, 1975. It's cold at "Le Château" and the boss needs an exotic dancer to warm the locals' blood.

Gina (Céline Lomez) is a sexy stripper sent there by her boss to "entertain" the slackers living there, who seemingly have nothing else to do than hang out in an abandoned ship on the frozen river, and ride their skidoos all day while drinking booze. During her first meal at the hotel she sleeps in, she befriends a gang of fellow montrealers, four guys in town to shoot a movie about textiles. The hot blooded skidoo gang, after an escalating series of incidents, come to the club where Gina dances and decide to have their way with her once her shift is over.

As much an exploitation piece than a fine social commentary on another kind of "exploitation", the textile sweatshops of "no future" small towns, GINA is a classic rape & revenge b-movie as conceived through the lens of an autheur. A part of the movie has to be autobiographical, since Arcand shot ON EST AU COTON A YEAR LATER, in '76, where he is seen interviewing textile workers and asking them questions about their working conditions & environment. It's not clear which idea came first, but it's a strange mirror for sure : in GINA, the cinema team is sent to Louiseville by the fictional NCB (National Cinema Board), and ON EST... was produced by the NFB.

The climate of small towns comes to life quite well, as the skidoo gang, led by the late Claude Blanchard, sounds especially truthlike : guys with nothing to do except boozing and going around town, looking for trouble.

Two members of the fictional cinema team would go on and have a brighter future : Serge Thériault, one half of the comical duo Ding & Dong, has become a familiar face in local TV series and popular movies, such as the "Les Boys" quadrilogy. And Gabriel Arcand, Denys' brother, also played a few starring roles since then, most memorably as a shady rocker in LE DÉCLIN DE L'EMPIRE AMÉRICAIN.

Lomez is the absolute star here, angel of vengeance and talented stripper : she speaks spanish, english & french, and has quite an exquisite body. Her "attributes" were put to good use in many movies of the era, starting with L'INITIATION in 1970, when she was 15. She appeared in Arcand's RÉJEANNE PADOVANI in 1973, the same year she played a waitress in Maurizio Lucidi's LAST CHANCE HOTEL, an italian production shot in a Québec small town and also featuring Fabio Testi and Ursula Andress !! It is rumored that nowadays, she teaches at Concordia University, but it is an information I could not verify...

The ending of the movie is brutal, and features a chase that has to be seen to be believed : a purple Plymouth Roadrunner roaring and chasing skidoos on snowy streets. It's a climax that does not put an end to the movie; instead, a funny cameo by Donald Pilon wraps things up.

The movie also features a very groovy musical theme composed by Michel Pagliaro and Gabriel Arcand, with an unforgettable bassline rolling through drum crashes and an orgy of electric guitar riffs. Dorothée Berryman, Donald Lautrec, Denise Filiatrault and Marcel Sabourin also appear, as does Frédérique Collin, playing a textile employee that the filmmakers befriend. GINA is a movie that I highly recommend to anybody, curious or not, as it's as entertaining for the eyes as it is for the brain.

Joe la Banane

2006-08-23T18:29:00.000-05:00

Il est temps que je vous parle de mon obsession pour Bud Spencer. Obsession qui remonte à ma plus tendre enfance, à l'époque de la VHS géante, et des diffusions "classiques" du petit écran. Mon père policier - qui prend sa retraite en septembre après presque 30 ans de bons et loyaux services pour la ville de Shawinigan - au risque de coller au cliché, aime bien les "films de police". On a donc vu plus d'une fois la moustache de Chuck Norris apparaître dans notre télé, mais on a aussi vu la barbe de Bud qui, même quand il ne joue pas un flic de Miami, sait donner des claques là où ça résonne.

Nous avions donc, à la maison, une jolie collection de VHS enregistrées en mode EP (Extended Play pour les idiots), qui contenaient une moyenne de trois films par cassette. Et parmi l'impressionnante sélection figuraient pas mal de films du duo Spencer / Hill. Éternels antagonistes, le gros et le petit, le lent et le rapide, barbe noire et cheveux blonds, ils faisaient la "paire" parfaite. Ils ont été un "success story" italien diffusé mondialement, et ont même généré des imitateurs ! Les italiens, rois du rip-off, qui se pillent entre eux ! Faut le faire...

Bud Spencer, de son vrai nom Carlo Pedersoli, est tout comme Fernando Sancho un "bon gros". Le genre de colosse qu'on a envie d'avoir comme ami. Un acteur au registre physique certes limité - autant de l'angle dramatique que moteur - mais au degré de sympathie proportionnel à son tour de taille. Sa "collaboration" avec Terrence Hill, dont le véritable nom est Mario Girotti, remonte à loin : en 1951, un film de Dino Risi, VACATIONS WITH A GANGSTER, les rassemblait (c'était leur premier film à tous les deux) mais c'est seulement à la fin des années '60 qu'ils ont commencé à être exploités sous la forme d'un duo comique dans une série de spaghetti westerns, dont le plus célèbre demeure MY NAME IS TRINITY.

Le reste, c'est de l'histoire, comme le veut le cliché consacré.

Quand les scénaristes ont commencé à s'essouffler, nos deux compères se sont mis à faire équipe seuls, chacun de leur côté, et Spencer s'est spécialisé dans le "film musclé pour grands enfants" : un sous-genre lui appartenant entièrement, qui se caractérise par des fables moralisatrices peuplées de personnages caricaturaux, d'humour enfantin et de scènes de bagarre hautes en couleur.

BANANA JOE est un de ceux-là. Il a longtemps hanté mon esprit grâce à sa chanson-thème, composée et interprétée par les fameux frères Guido & Maurizio de Angelis, mais je ne l'avais jusqu'ici jamais visionné.

Spencer y personifie Banana Joe, un gros fainéant qui cultive des bananes dans le fond de la jungle, avec ses 20 fils et le reste du petit village qui semble lui "appartenir". On ne saura jamais comment il est atterri là. C'est lui qui est chargé de partir en bateau, chaque semaine, pour aller échanger des bananes contre des provisions pour ses concitoyens. Un bon jour, à son réveil, il aperçoit trois arpenteurs qui sont en train de mesurer son terrain. Ils sont mandatés par Torsillo, un riche industriel de la région, pour commencer à y installer une usine de traitement des bananes. Spencer les fout dehors à coup de pieds dans le cul, mais lorsqu'il visite subséquemment le port où il a ses habitudes pour aller échanger ses bananes, un policier confisque son bateau et lui signifie qu'il a besoin d'une "patente" pour faire le commerce des fruits. Le reste du film racontera donc la quête bureaucratique du gros Bud.

Tourné quelque part en Amérique du Sud en 1982, BANANA JOE est un film typiquement jouissif réalisé par Steno. Le scénario a été supervisé par une équipe qui a fait ses preuves : Steno, Mario Amendola, Bruno Corbucci & Spencer lui-même ! On y retrouve tout ce qui nous fait habituellement jubiler devant une telle oeuvre : un Banana Joe qui ne comprend pas trop ce qui lui arrive, qui tombe en amour, et qui fout des râclées aux méchants tout en leur donnant une leçon de savoir-vivre.

On peut presque dire que les films de Bud Spencer sont des "contes moraux" pour le "petit" peuple : la bonté finit toujours par y triompher, et les bons sentiments y pleuvent. Bud se heurte ici à l'absurdité bureaucratique et à l'industrialisation sauvage. Il faut le voir démolir à coups de masse, en quelques minutes, un casino que des hommes ont pris des semaines à ériger !

Cette comédie ne manque donc pas de rythme, de blagues, de bagarres ou de bananes ! Peut-être que certains d'entre vous y noteront une certaine absence de subtilité, mais quand on regarde un cultivateur de bananes de 7 pieds mettre une ville à sac pour obtenir un document officiel, il faut s'attendre à tout !

Three Sides of Hollywood

2006-08-22T19:05:00.000-05:00

I can't say I'm a big Hollywood movies fan. I like my flicks too twisted to fit in the "popular" mold. But I recognise good directing when I see some, and I am not stubborn. Which is why, after reading about SNAKES ON A PLANE and seeing the 2nd part of the FINAL DESTINATION trilogy, I decided to investigate on the elusive David R. Ellis, and more precisely another movie that he directed, CELLULAR.

This one was released shortly after PHONE BOOTH, and they both share the same script writer : fast-pace specialist Larry Cohen. Larry doesn't direct much, these days, but his scripts sure get picked up fast !

So when the movie begins, we don't really "get" what's going on. Kim Basinger is kidnapped and thrown in a dusty attic by Jason Staham. What gives ? We then see two teenagers walking on a L.A. dock and cruising for booty. One of the guys runs into his ex (Jessica Biel) and she accuses him of being selfish. He desperately wants to get back with her - can't blame him - and he promises to do something worthy, fast. He'll get the occasion when, several minutes after departing from the dock, his phone rings and a lady, on the other line, tries to convince him that she needs help and that he's the only guy who can help her.

How are these two stories related ? Obviously, they are. We are not watching a movie about destiny, here. We're watching an action-packed thriller that combines a time-tickling suspense, car chases, rotten cops and a "day spa". That's right.

With players like William H. Macy and Rick Hoffman (who seems to have a long "shit talker" carreer ahead) you cannot go wrong. The real hero of the movie here is a cellular phone (hence the title), and not the handsome young lead Chris Evans, because he's so generic that you won't even know who is in two or three years. All you'll remember is that it was one hell of an action movie and that Jason Staham, whatever role he's playing, always looks and acts the same, and that you cannot picture him WITHOUT a gun in his hands - a British Bruce Willis, if you will.

*

Hollywood can also be mocked. And it's something the semi-mockumentary THE INDEPENDENT does pretty well.

Stephen Kessler crafts a hell of a flick, which presents B-movie icon Morty Fineman (played by Jerry Stiller, Ben's dad - who coincidentally also played George Costanza's father in Seinfeld) as he slowly starts falling in the depths of Hollywood. Never one to go with the flow, he has directed 437 movies, all of them carrying a social message, and all of them including Fineman's favorite ingredients : "Tits, ass and bombs". Morty begs his daughter (played by Janeane Garofalo) to become the president of his small production firm, and she does, only to regret it after a couple of weeks.

Fineman wants to get back on his feet and start shooting another movie. But his creditors are knockin'. And the check is most definitly not in the mail. He can't seem to sell his back catalogue for a reasonable price, and no festival will have him as a guest or screen one of his films.

The main story is told in a regular narrative style (read : fictious), ponctuated by testimonials from real film makers (Ron Howard, Roger Corman, Ted Demme, Peter Bogdanovitch, etc) and by extracts from his various oeuvres (in which the often hilarious and never aging Fred Williamson seem to have played a major part).

The jokes are numerous and clever, and anybody remotely interested in the B movie business will find a reason to laugh out loud or at least smile. 437 movies seem like an awful lot, even in the savagely shot world of exploitation cinema, but the morals, shooting methods and crew handling of Morty Fineman are inspired by real events - undoubtedly.

*

Hollywood can be mimicked - such as when an italian team comes to Florida to shoot a "horror thriller", as is the case with Umberto Lenzi's extravagant 1988 entry NIGHTMARE BEACH.

Don't ask me why - apart from a latent desire to BE americans - these italians were so fond of Florida at the end of the 80's... It looks like it was their promise land; Bruno Corbucci shot several Bud Spencer flicks there, Alberto de Martino made "Miami Golem", and Lenzi would return in '90 to shoot COP TARGET (as "Humphrey Humbert").

For NIGHTMARE BEACH, Lenzi americanised his name and became Harry Kirkpatrick. An a.k.a. is "Welcome to Spring Break", and it gives you a nice idea of what you're getting into. A guy nicknamed "Diablo" is executed on an electric chair at the beginning, convicted of having viciously killed a young girl. Gail (Sarah Buxton), her sister, watches him die. So does Strycher (John Saxon), the cop who got him there. A few days later, two football players from another town check into their hotel, ready to spend an unforgettable week of sand, booze & pussy. The members of a biker gang and a series of gruesome electrical murders will keep the cops busy, and make our friend's week after to stomach than expected.

And once the ending credits of this movie roll, you end up being divided. The character's motivations are so questionable at times that something seems unexplained. But you can't quite put your hands on it.

And frankly, Lenzi doesn't disappoint : as always, the action is constant, the dialogues are funny as hell, and the seriousness is only on the surface. The man is playing with the genre's codes, and is having fun, a pleasure that is communicated to the viewer. It's almost easy to guess who's the next victim, but not who the killer is ! And this information is about the only thing that Lenzi manages to hide until the "shocking" end.

Claudio Simonetti composed a low grade rock score filled with cheesy synth lines, and the killer's "theme" plays every time things get menacing. The biker gang is pure cliché'd fun - denim, leather and attitude.

Sarah Buxton, the lead female, is constantly sporting high waisted pants or hitched up skirts, and patrons at the "club" she's bartending in hit on her like crazy. Our man Skip (Nicolas de Toth, the "hero") didn't do much in the cinematic field, except a short role in Larry Cohen's THE STUFF in '85, and is just okay here. The french dubbed version I have seen is probably filled with intentional silliness - when a cop asks the mayor about what he'll do about the killings, he mumbles : "Non mais, est-ce que je vous demande comment votre femme fait cuire une dinde ?!"

NIGHTMARE BEACH is a fine example of why I keep doing what do - once in a while, you find a few good apples under a rotten tree.