CINEMANIA:

Touching the Void (2003, USA, Kevin MacDonald) AKA I Kiss the Sky

First up, I had planned to write something of the sorta depth and catch-yer-breath fascination that this here film deserves, but I just plain ran outta time (going on holidays tomorrow) and energy (I’ve got ten other films I outta be saying something about as well). Still and all, lemme tell you that as a study of the pure primal urge to survive, that fundamental refusal to surrender to oblivion that resides in the core of our being, you've gotta give it up for Touching the Void.

Apologia

You may be axing yerself, where’s the Dan Jardine who was producing a half dozen reviews a week? Have ye lost yer will to write? Yer strength of purpose? Yer mental acuity and spiritual fortitude?

Hummmm…The honest truth I’ve still been watching ‘em, and thinking madly about ‘em. I’ve even been doing a little bit of writing about ‘em for Apollo Guide. But I’ve let ‘er slide here on the ol’ blog, and for that I apologize. Mea culpa. Mea maxa culpa.

Just an American Boy (a film about Steve Earle) (USA, 2003, Amos Poe) AKA What’s So Funny About Peace, Love and Understanding?

Now, I’ve been a big fan of Steve Earle’s for as long as he’s been making records—I have ridiculous affection for everything he’s done, from Guitar Town, Exit 0 and Copperhead Road right on through to his post-prison productions that includes El Corazon, Transcendental Blues and Jerusalem.

Kill Bill Vol 2(USA, 2004, Quentin Tarantino) AKA The Bride Wore Yellow

With Quentin Tarantino, it seems unlikely that we will ever have a failure to communicate.

Tokyo Story (Japan, 1953, Yasujiru Ozu) AKA Life is Disappointing

"None can serve his parents beyond the grave."

--Confucius.

Let’s face it, filial piety ain’t what it used to be. But it ain’t all it’s cracked up to be either. I mean, as a social goal, it’s always seemed awfully old-fashioned to me; the sort of quiet obedience that marks devotion to one’s parents has never struck me as a vital quality around which to build an enlightened society.

Rules of the Game (France, 1939, Jean Renoir) AKA The Rape of the Flock

--Life is a game my boy. Life is a game that one plays according to the rules.

--Yes, sir. I know it is. I know it.

Game, my ass. Some game. If you get on the side where all the hot-shots are, then it’s a game, all right—I’ll admit that. But if you get on the other side, where there aren’t any hot-shots, then what’s a game about it? Nothing. No game.