Sadly, this collection of cartoons mostly shows why Science and Humour are commonly considered to be unmixable substances. A few of the jokes are actually funny, but they’re rarely the ones that actually deal with scientists, or science as such, but rather ones inspired by or loosely based on scientific ideas. A few years back, Carl Djerassi wrote several novels in a genre he calls science-in-fiction (early Science Fiction writers probably would have been horrified by the necessity for that distinction), and if I remember correctly, none of them turned out particularly funny, though he sure tried. These cartoon have the additional disadvantage of stemming from strange, past decades, and so are mainly of interest to historians. Ah, historians, don’t get me started on those. Hilarious!

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I knew I had seen and loved it, but as with Shortcuts, I couldn’t remember a thing. Now, memory is an odd fellow, and often you’ll immediately recognize what you couldn’t actively remember – but not me, in this case. Every part of it was just as fresh and new as it was when I first saw it, and that is just as well, for it is a terrific and clever script, and surprises in general work much better when you don’t know they’re coming. Tom Hanks is wonderful as the lead character, an asshole producer in trouble, there are numerous celebrity cameos, and the opening scene rivals the one in Bertolucci’s 1900. In fact, just seeing this long continuous setup made me want to rewatch 1900, and to my dismay I found that it is available neither at Netflix nor Amazon, and the studio doesn’t currently offer DVDs of it for sale. A remark oddly fitting for the end a minireview of a satire about the movie business.

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It is always risky to watch the classics, because the time that has passed since they wowed the world has changed viewing and storytelling conventions in often profound ways, and what used to be a captivating thrillride can turn out to be boring or emotionally incomprehensible. With Sunset Boulevard, the problem exists on two levels, as the subject of the film itself is the sinking into oblivion of one medium – silent movies – and its stars. The haunting scene where the looming figures of the silent era – Buster Keaton among them -, are playing cards in Norma Desmonds house is doubly spooke, because they are Has-Beens within the movie as well as without. Wilder has applied this eery unity to many of his characters, with Gloria Swanson, who is playing Norman Desmond, herself being a former silent movie star, with Erich von Stroheim playing Max von Meyerling – essentially himself, and with the added twist of Strohheim’s having shot the movie that ended Swansons career. This movie is an epitaph on a dead art. And, coming full circle, it works marvellously well today, adding one more layer, as though the person giving a gripping speech at a funeral themself was dead.

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The cover blurb calls this a satire on Japanese society and its customs, and when I randomly opened at some place, it indeed seemed a very funny and acerbic recasting of the Japanese into the Kappa. While this turned out to be quite misleading, it also turned me onto a book I probably wouldn’t have read otherwise. A lucky turn. The story is of a human being suddenly cast into Kappa society, the Kappa being somewhat malevolent mythological creatures of Japanese rivers, scaly amphibians apt to drag children into the water and drown them. The tone and setting is more than a bit reminiscent of Abbott’s Flatland, which Ryunosuke well might have read, and the absurdity of the goings on in the land of the Kappa reminded me of Daniil Kharms, but all in all, this is quite a solitary achievement. Born, as Ryunosuke himself said, out of his disgust with everything, especially himself, this story presents a caricature of humanity unlike anything I’ve read before.

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This is a profoundly silly book, about magic symbols and masonic references on the US 1$ bill. Some of them are surprising and interesting (like the etymology of Dollar, the significance of the pyramid, or the source for the $ symbol), but most of the letter and word counting and geometric analysis of what appears where seems more like an unhealthy obsession than an informative analysis. I know Gematria is very honorable quackery, but it obviously is possible to overdo it. Who would have thunk?

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What a strange movie. Reminiscent of the director’s earlier “Cube”, this has less of the grim deadliness, and more levity, but also a bit too much jumpy goofiness for the sake of its central metaphor. It’s the story of two underdog friends living in a derelict house between two freeways in Toronto, who one fateful day wish the world away and find themselves stranded in a white, bouncy Nirvana – in a typical silly twist, the first thing one of the characters throws into the whiteness to see if it can be walked upon is a statue of Buddha. Subsequent fights between the friends lead them to them wish away more and more of what little they have, and it is a surprise that the movie doesn’t end with pure whiteness, like Cube did, but with… ah, well, you’ll just have to watch it, because I’m not going to tell you.

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If you’ve watched this show at all, it doesn’t come as news to you that oftentimes hilarity is caused by it. But recent episode five of season three, titled Mr. F, surpasses anything they’ve done so far. The whole episode is an elaborate sequence of absurd coincidences that set up a climactic scene, where a group of Japanese investors is shown a miniature city (which they believe to be the real size model homes they are about to help finance) being trashed by Tobias in a mole suit and George Michael with a jet pack. I have not seen anything so funny on TV in quite a long time. Sheerr brilliance.

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Eine immense Schlange, träge, fast bewegungslos, und nahe dem Kopf gespalten, liegt quer durch den Vorlesungssaal. Ihre Glieder, teilweise im Gespräch, teils stumm und staunend über das Ausmaß der Verehrung, tragen meistenteils ein schönes, ein buntes und schweres Buch im Arm, einen kleinen Zettel mit dem eigenen Namen darangeheftet, damit der Autor schneller unterschreiben kann und nicht nach der Schreibung des Namens zu fragen braucht. Zäh nur geht es voran, und vorne skribbelt Michael Palin fleißig, den Vortrag über Hemingway ebenso souverän abgewickelt wie aus noch der peinlichsten Zuschauerfrage den Anlaß zu einer rührenden Geschichte gepreßt. Jetzt allerdings muß er schreiben, bis ihm die Hand wund wird, und langsam aber stetig rückt der Schlangenschwanz, mit mir darin, dem Tisch auf der Bühne näher? “Der Autor verschlingt die Fanschlange vom Kopfe her” (Brecht).
Als ich das Buch, die Biografie eines MAD-Redakteurs, die ich zufällig heute kaufte, auf den Tisch packte, meinen Zettel daneben, blickt die Buchhändlerin verstimmt. Die sich sichtlich im Genusse aalt, den Star eingeladen und nun für ihn verantwortlich zu sein. Palinmama für ein paar Minuten. “I don’t even know where to write in this one, do your best” sagt sie nach ratlosem Blättern spitz, und legt dem Autor die Frechheit vor. Der starrt sichtlich ermüdet auf meinen Namenszettel, versteht und beginnt, das gewünschte ins Buch zu schreiben. Währenddessen ich, dem großen Manne wenigstens etwas zurückzugeben, die Geschichte von Thor Heyerdahl im Pippi Langstrumpf Film erzähle. Palin schreibt angestrengt, blickt nicht auf, und bemüht sich, dem unerwarteten Geplapper zu folgen. Beide sind wir endlich fertig, ich nehme das Buch, er blickt auf: ‘that’s some obscure information’, und ich bin entlassen, nehme mein MAD Buch unter den Arm, auf dessen erster Seite Michael Palin bestätigt, was niemand glauben mochte: “Kai kann mit einem Eeierlöffel Fledermäuse töten. Michael Palin” Jetzt muß ich nur noch einen “Eeierlöffel” finden, dann geht’s den Viechern an den Kragen!

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