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Ray Pride

By Ray Pride Pride@moviecitynews.com

Wenders’ STATE OF THINGS RV Scene (9’58”)

Somehow it comes back to this. Appropriate at the end of one year and the start of another. The State Of Things, the strange missive Wenders eked in the delay, delay, delays of Hammett, indulging in all sorts of anachronism and present-tension. Black-and-white, you motherfucker, indeed. How much did Garfield improvise in his Coppola stylings in that rackety Winnebago Silverfish? Like some of the rat-a-tat-tat of John Garfield exsanguinating Abraham Polonsky’s corpuscular vernacular in Force Of Evil. Garfield’s may be more impressive a feat of off-the-cuff character legerdemain than Brando telling us he swallowed a bug in Hearts of Darkness. “You can’t build a movie without a story. Have you ever tried building a house without walls? It’s the same. You can’t build a house without walls. A movie’s got to have walls, Friedrich. It’s gotta have walls. Y’know?”

“Why walls?” mutters Friedrich. “The space between the characters can carry the load.”

“You’re talking about reality, Friedrich. Fuck reality, Friedrich, when are you going to wake up? Cinema… is not about life going by, people don’t wanna see that.”

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“I was 15 when I first watched Sally Hardesty escape into the back of a pickup truck, covered in blood and cackling like a goddamn witch. All of her friends were dead. She had been kidnapped, tortured and even forced to feed her own blood to her cannibalistic captors’ impossibly shriveled patriarch. Being new to the horror genre, I was sure she was going to die. It had been a few months since I survived a violent sexual assault, where I subsequently ran from my assailant, tripped, fell and fought like hell. I crawled home with bloody knees, makeup-stained cheeks and a new void in both my mind and heart. My sense of safety, my ability to trust others, my willingness to form new relationships and my love of spending time with people I cared about were all taken from me. It wasn’t until I found the original The Texas Chain Saw Massacre that something clicked. It was Sally’s strength, and her resilience. It was watching her survive blows to the head from a hammer. It was watching her break free from her bonds and burst through a glass window. It was watching her get back up after she’d been stabbed. It was watching her crawl into the back of a truck, laughing as it drove away from Leatherface. She was the last one to confront the killer, and live. I remember sitting in front of the TV and thinking, There I am. That’s me.”
~ Lauren Milici On “The Final Girl”

“‘Thriller’ enforced its own reality principle; it was there, part of the every commute, a serenade to every errand, a referent to every purchase, a fact of every life. You didn’t have to like it, you only had to acknowledge it. By July 6, 1984, when the Jacksons played the first show of their ‘Victory’ tour, in Kansas City, Missouri, Jacksonism had produced a system of commodification so complete that whatever and whoever was admitted to it instantly became a new commodity. People were no longer comsuming commodities as such things are conventionally understood (records, videos, posters, books, magazines, key rings, earrings necklaces pins buttons wigs voice-altering devices Pepsis t-shirts underwear hats scarves gloves jackets – and why were there no jeans called Bille Jeans?); they were consuming their own gestures of consumption. That is, they were consuming not a Tayloristic Michael Jackson, or any licensed facsimile, but themselves. Riding a Mobius strip of pure capitalism, that was the transubstantiation.”
~ Greil Marcus On Michael Jackson