This is a late post preempted by another ten hour day pulling espresso shots for pea-brained morons. I've been having problems stringing together coherent single thoughts in terms of my writing lately, so I'm just going to rattle off a few thoughts about, uh, things I've been, well, thinking about:
1. A thankfully soon-to-be former co-worker of mine used the term "shizzy" today, as in, "Oh man, I heard that, and I was like shizzy" or "oh, whoa, shizzzzzzy." I believe this red-eyed co-worker of mine may partake in a pretty healthy dose of "hitting the bong", which is just fine, I just thought I'd heard every stereotypical bit of stoner chatter this world had to offer. This kid is a bit younger than me, and I wonder if after I cancelled my subscription to "Bongz and Thongz" Magazine, if the whole stoner lingo took a turn towards "shizzzzy" and words of its ilk. If so, I'm glad that I've stepped even further away from a stoner culture I was never much a part of.
2. I don't know if anyone else saw it, but someone actually left a very coherent, very academic seeming, very negative comment on my Blood of the Poet (67) post. Sure, he vehemently disagreed with everything I said, but at least he had an opinion and stated it. And I'd love if each and everyone of you followed in his footsteps. I don't want this blog just to be a soap box for me to stand upon, blathering my opinions to the world. And yes I understand I'm usually talking about a host of movies no one but myself has seen, but I'd love for this to be more of conversation, a discussion of movies and there worth. Or, I can just mouth off some more about stoner co-workers and why I hate silent films from the 30s.
That said, the second film in this Orphic Trilogy by Jean Cocteau, Orpheus (68) is so much more enjoyable than Blood of a Poet (67). It's filmed nearly ten years after the first film, and the advances in film techniques and technology in general allow the film to transcend above the other. I've said it before, Cocteau's a master of surreal imagery and this film has them in spades. The strange upside down wall-walking, the way the mirror gloves suction themselves around the poet's hands, the strange tribunal that judges them all - this is one strange movie. But it's so much more enjoyable than Blood of a Poet (67). There's so many similarities between the two movies - an artist, obsessed with discovery, embarks on a journey behind the world of mirrors - but this film has a narrative line that draws everything together and, at least for me, it makes it so much more bearable.
There's strong relationships between the characters, and I could find connection and reason to care about what they were doing. The myth of Eurydice and Orpheus revolves around Orpheus becoming so obsessed with his art that he ignores Eurydice until she dies. So saddened he follows her to the underworld but can only save her if he promises to never look at her again. Strangely enough in this film, the section where Orpheus can't look at Eurydice is played like a 1950s sitcom. I couldn't help but laugh at Orpheus's besotted anger at the sheer inconvenience of not being able to look at Eurydice.
Again, not a film I'm enthralled with, but one that at least makes me somewhat interested in viewing the third film in this trilogy.
Tuesday: Testament of Orpheus (69)
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