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Wednesday, December 16th, 2009

Dexter ist blutiger als Wasser

Nichts ist eigentlich überraschend, man müsste ja erwarten, dass mans nicht vorhersieht, aber das Überrascht-tun-müssen ist der psychophysische Kern der verbotenen Frucht Erkenntnis: man hat diesen Batzen im Kopf, der andauernd alles nach Mustern durchsiebt, und dann bildet sich ein Zukunftsbild im dummen Kopf, und man verlässt sich drauf und vertraut, aber es ist natürlich alles bloss feiner bröselnder Sand, und Induktion ein Riesenkäse, den das Fortpflanzungsorgan Gehirn da durch die Weltgeschichte rollt: wahr ist, was funktioniert, mit Reinstecken, und die ständigen Enttäuschungen der Erwartung sind Humes Argumentschläge, nur halt in die Eier statt den Kopf, die Organe sind eh alles eins, und zwar: metaphysischer schleimiger Dreck.

Trotzdem staunt man natürlich immer wieder, wenn zurechnungsfähige Leute plötzlich Mist reden oder im Stich lassen, als säge die Trivialität, dass sowas geht, und nichts ist, wie man es denkt, am edlen Weltgebäude, statt nur seine Wackligkeit mal wieder zu bestätigen, was ja eigentlich was Positives sein müsste. Genug insinuiert jetzt, versteht eh wieder kein Mensch, ders verstehen müsste, jedenfalls die Figuren in meinem Kopf verstehns wieder nicht und schütteln nur den Kopf, Pessimismus ist aber was anderes als Induktionsunmöglichkeit, ihr Gegenteil nämlich, Vorwegnahme des Irrtums, aus Feigheit. Mir gehts aber um echten Verrat, nicht um erfundenen, der ist auch gesünder.

Salon.com ist eine der öderen Onlinemeinungsraushauereien, immer sauber kalifornisch durchliberalisiert, aber auf Heather Havrilesky, die dort fürs Fernsehgucken beschäftigt wird, unter anderem, war eigentlich halbwegs Verlass, Galactica hat sie zum Beispiel verstanden, trotz Frausein, und das ist ja schon mal allerhand eigentlich. Aber jetzt. Die vierte Staffel von Dexter, dem Fernseh mit dem Serienmörder, ging grade zuende, schön symmetrisch sass der Sohn des liebenswerten Monsters in der Blutsuppe seiner Mutter am Ende, wie Dexter selber ganz am Anfang, nur diesmal ist nicht das motivationslose, blinde Universum schuld, oder der Anonyme, was dasselbe ist, sondern Dexter selbst, eine schöne Schleife der Gründe, ein Blutfraktal. Und das findet Heather ja auch, aber zugleich geht ihr das alles zu weit, denn hier sitzt ja ein unschuldiges Kind im Blut, und zudem ist ihr erhofftes romantisches Happy-End kaputt, der Ausflug des Mörders und seiner unerträglichen Häppihäppifrau nach Key West, als könne man das freigelassene Monster in sich retten, als sei dieser Impuls zum Eingriff, den jeder normale Mensch hat, haben muss, wenn er kein Arsch ist, durch ein bisschen Sonnenuntergang soziabel zu machen. Wenn man sich hier über irgendwas aufregt, dann doch über den Gewalt-schafft-Gewalt-Dreck, den erhobenen Zeigefinger und die zu befürchtende fünfte Staffel, in der ein Kartenhaus ja wohl jetzt moralwiedergraderückend einstürzen wird, dass man wird kotzen müssen, und nicht über die geschändete Unschuld des dummen Kindes, das da in der roten Farbe hockt und heult, Kinderunschuld und romantische Selbstjustiz des Familienoberhauptes, alles kaputt, wunderbar, wie das dumme Amerika da zerschlagen wird, und Havrilesky empört sich drüber, das ist ja die Scheisse, man möchte mit Äpfeln werfen, Kallisti, Meinungskrieg. Und man war blöd genug, das anders zu erwarten vom Journalismus, und wollte ja selber diese Romantik, die abartige, widersinnige, den geretteten Amokläufer und seine Kleinfamilie; also der Irrtum des eigenen zusammenfantasierten Erwartungswahns ist sowieso der Skandal, und nicht die fremde Meinung der anderen, oder die andere der Fremden. Man verrät sich sowieso immer selber, Passiv wird nicht gegeben.

Thursday, September 24th, 2009

the shark jumped house – an eruption

Oh, come on, for the love of something that you scriptwriting people actually love, your gnawed pencils, perhaps, or your iPhones with the witty applications. Not that I have any hope that writing this stuff down will do any good externally, meaning as it concerns you scriptwriting folk, but venting does help the entity that is letting go of steam, thus in this case, me. It’s self-medication, really, right up your alley. Pompeji likely might be less of an attraction of death and doom today if Mount Vesuvius had vented just a little more and exploded in fire and brimstone and rivers of ash a little less.

So I saw the double hour season premiere of House last night, and was, by and large, not very much amused. To frame the impending venting, House has always been a glorified soap opera. The medical profession that the show supposedly was about was never portrayed in anything resembling realism, the acerbic wit and deep insights were ever only shallow facade to elevate Laurie’s unshaven jerk, and greater responsibilities are on the mind of hardly anybody on TV, it would seem, no matter how multimillioned the audience. Sure, walk into MR rooms to have a secret chat without checking your pockets, it’s only TV after all, and if you do it in real life and kill a patient, it’s your own bloody fault.

And that’s not even the venting, yet. So the season opening shows House dealing with his depression and darkness, except it doesn’t. The message of these two hours is that all it takes to emerge from an existential crisis is a stretched out hand and a few pills, and the shallowness and sheer stupidity of such an assertion in the face of a civilization choking on epidemic numbers of the clinically depressed is astounding. I say this, of course, assuming that following episodes will not put the lie to this soppy, infuriating opener.

Which isn’t the main beef necessitating venting, at all. They also missed a very obvious pun for Mr Smartass to make, when he referred to the new treatment method of blackmail, it should have been blackmail by a black male, much more acerbically witty this way, and unsubtly active-agressive, indicating this and that, though, in fairness, that might have been implied in his saying blackmail the way he did, though again on the other hand, this would be uncharacteristically subtle in an episode where everything gets named and thus nothing gets pointed out at all.

But that’s a bit beside the point and not raising the gas pressure very much at all, either, of course. So then House steals a car, abducts a delusional patient and endangers the guy’s life, all to prove a point. And but what should happen next but him getting absolution from a cringe inducing German, Franka Potente of all people, for his improvised manslaughter attempt, because, get this: he meant well. Says the German, in her German accent. Hugs all around. Aww.

Which still isn’t the truly upsetting part and not what I would want to vent superheated acidic gases from a rocky orifice for under normal circumstances. But now if I am somehow connecting this to politics, in a country recently obsessed with Nazis and socialists and its bloody misguided war in the Middle East, parsing Bush as the leader type with issues who took Iraq out for a ride to make a point, and, oops, Iraq jumped off a crumbling wall, if I make this connection and then hear an American written German absolve the whole mess because, hey, at least he meant well, then the sheer level of lack of reflection, emotional or intellectual depth, and moral bancrupcy becomes a tad much to bear. It’s OK to ruin someone, as long as you MOVE ON ALREADY, like the Deutschländer did. Uh huh. Thanks, daddy-o, feeling much better already, moving on, nothing to see here.

So that finally this now is the actual lava-deferring and eruption-avoiding hot air bubbling to the surface here in the middle of this wasteland of a post: why on the face of this abominably hurling rock of dirt and shit and seas full of plastic waste, all stuck together by quark and glue am I even watching this mindless drivel, still, and will very likely tune in again next Monday, see if I don’t? Just what kind of a passively watching mindless superdrone am I?

Do not answer this, please. Ha, see? I control your mind now. All through the power of venting.

Sunday, April 13th, 2008

Inversions



Stabbed by the light, by beauty, by the day,
The network, falling silent,
Becomes a lump of fat and blood.
But sensing night and seeing lack,
Frantically firing electrical sparks,
Numbing brain, it awakes,
Shivers adrift in the empty sea of all.

Lonely screens showed this at night,
The fear of an absence of message,
Creating bad news from nil, noisy chatter,
The frosty hold of a particle winter.
This was all and it was nothing,
The birth of the nothing from the all was in this snow,
Covering dark earth, putting old eyes to sleep.

Now fragments of humanity cast through the air,
Around the clock, unending and repeating,
At speed of light and broadband, piercing skull and mind,
Melt snowy voices in my soul.

Their endless turquoise river,
Heralding a spring of end,
A going to sleep of all awakening,
Will mask the absence
Of each word.

Sunday, January 13th, 2008

Big Love (1)

Big-Love-Saeson-1-7321970110371-01.jpg A fascinating glimpse into a way of life both far removed from mainstream culture and morals, and very close to them at the same time. A well written drama, an audacious subject, and an even handed and balanced presentation of the subject make this a delightful foray into the foundations of human social mores, by example rather than by lecture. A tremendous cast, a gripping cliffhanger. Season two, here I come.

stewie.jpg If you need to be told that Familiy Guy is funny, you shouldn’t be surfing the web, you should watch TV and fill the gaping hole in your life. Go. Now.
All right, where were we? When Fox cancelled Family Guy after its third season, things looked as bleak for Stewie’s and Brians fans as they do now for the fans of Arrested Development and Firefly, and soon will for those of Deadwood, may the old cocksucker have mercy. But consistent nagging of fans, and a glorious second life on the Cartoon Network brought the show a second chance, and the writing staff the chance to produce something as close to a full movie as they could get within a limited budget. They wrote three episodes that tie into a coherent story, and released it directly onto DVD. Some parts of the movie drag a bit, especially the additional material framing the movie-in-the-movie, but frequently pure gold shines. Stewie standing on the table celebrating his chess win couldn’t possibly be any better. And Meg’s sex scene is very tastefully done. What more could you want?

Friday, June 16th, 2006

David Milch – Deadwood, Season 3 (1)

deadwood.jpg Everyone’s favorite drama of swear and cuss is entering its third season, and judging from the opening episode, it’s going to be great. I have a hard time nailing down just exactly how they do it, but every moment of Deadwood’s reenacted history seems to be a goddam fucking delight. Partly, I think, this is due to the subtlety of plot and dialogue, that often lets you understand something said or done only much later, without making a fuss about such a resolution, as minor scripts might. And to a large part it’s the miraculous cast, Ian McShane’s Al Swearengen above all that lift this onto a plane all its own. Too bad the cokesnorting cocksuckers over at HBO cancelled the concluding fourth season and replaced it with a compromise. It’s a fucking disgrace. But for the time being, let’s enjoy season three, shall we?

goodnight.jpg While Clooney did seem a bit too proud of the things he’s been doing lately at the Oscar’s, the things he does are indeed pretty great, and he wasn’t quite deserving of the scorn heaped upon him by pop reactionaries Parker and Stone in a recent South Park episode (that puts him in a league with recently mocked Al Gore. Apparently poop jokes aren’t controversial enough any more. But I digress). This movie depicts, in rather beautiful black and white cinematography, the courageous act of a few TV journalists at CBS defying overpowering senator Joe McCarthy, and contributing significantly to his eventual downfall. An inspiring and encouraging story at any time, the present context makes this indispensable.

Find this at Amazon.

Thursday, March 30th, 2006

Battlestar Galactica (2)

While parts of the second season of the new Galactica drag just as badly as the first – in particular the plot elements concerned with the Cylon masterplan and the impending birth of the child of doom are stretched so thin as to be practically impreceptible. Also, the density of journalists and the political and social structure of the fleet still don’t make much sense other than as commentary on the US today. On the plus side, the acting, set design and the general military mood are great, and the writing, which is generally quite good, of the last few episodes of the second season in particular was excellent. Partly because the main plotline, stalled by the arrival of the Pegasus and its semifascist admiral, finally started moving, but also because the usual seriousness was spiced up with some nice humorous elements. A welcome relief from the heavy handedness which some of the political and moral issues were presented with. The explanation for how the humans were detected (the atomic blast was picked up a year later and a light year away) is a nice nod to physics (though you have to wonder where this nebula clad planet is located for there to be something of interest just a lightyear away. Ah, well). I’m looking forward to the next season, which is slated for airing starting October.

Friday, March 24th, 2006

The Sopranos – Season 6 (2)

My favorite family of criminals is back, but so far I’m none too sure about how happy I should be about it. The first episode caused mostly consfusion, for its lack of continuity – for instance how come Tony and Carmela are as harmonious again as we see them, was there any fallout from the horrible murder of Adriana that made last seasons second to last episode so intensely hard to watch – and for its lack of direction. Nothing is happening we haven’t seen many times before, no plot is advanced, right up until the moment Tony gets shot by Junior, who seems to be truly demented by now, but also might be scheming again. The second episode then has us all watch Tony linger in limbo, while his spiritual and bodily fate are being decided. The metaphorical, dreamlike sequences are nice to watch, but once again the episode doesn’t advance much. Except maybe for AJ’s promise of a revenge killing.

Thursday, March 9th, 2006

Hongo Mitsuru – Outlaw Star (3)

Having cute and ferocious female tigers with big boobs might not be generally considered the peak of sophisitication among science fiction afficionados, but the level of plot and design in general is higher than the screaming tiger lady would have you expect. The Japanese is simple enough to give this apprentice at Japanese occasional thrills of recognition (He said Ikemashoo! He said Ikemashoo!), and that almost seals the deal. But I think I’ll still stop watching this after episode three. So much to see, so little time.