D. Arthur

It was a great joy to make this film, and there was a feeling of something hilarious at the same time. Whenever we started a scene, we kind of knew deep inside that it was going to be hilarious.

I had the feeling while I was shooting that finally here was a film where audiences would recognize that there’s a lot of sometimes very dark humor in my movies. When you see the film with the audience, there’s more laughter than in an Eddie Murphy comedy.

In the phone conversation [with Nicolas Cage], he was in Australia, and we were in business in less than 60 seconds. It was clear he wanted to do the film, but only if I was on board, and I said that I will only sign if he was on board, so there was a relationship of mutual trust before we had even seen each other. Both of us found it some sort of an outrage that having looked at each other’s work, it had never occurred to us that we should work together. [Laughs.] So it was kind of outrageous. It dawned on us suddenly that we had to do this. And then of course… what was your question? I lost it a little bit, sorry.

You see, with actors, normally I don’t like to have any conversation about background and about motivations and all this. I think on the first or second day of shooting, Nicolas, who is a very shy man, came to me and said “Werner, I know you hate these kind of Lee Strasberg Actors Studio questions about motivation, but what makes him so bad? Is it the drugs? Is it Katrina? Is it his injuries?” And I said, “Yeah, well, let’s not discuss that. But there’s such a thing as the bliss of evil. Let’s go straight for that. Enjoy yourself as much as you can, doing the worst thing, the most debased and vile things, but enjoy yourself, because the audience will somehow, I hope, be in a secret conspiracy with you that sometimes we love to be vile and debased.” It’s a secret joy, and that makes it so hilarious, I think.

And then we had moments—and some of them are the most remarkable in his performance—where I understood he needed to be like music, and I had to give him the space and the time and the possibility of playing out wild facets. For example, when he intimidated two elderly ladies with his gun, that was only halfway scripted. It ends in wild improvisation.

You have to sense where an actor needs a lot of space, and I would tell him, “Nicolas, this scene is written like this. We know the dialogue, we know the movement, but this is a scene where you must turn the hog loose.”

Oh yes. I turned the hog loose when I filmed the iguanas.

Still can’t tell whether Werner Herzog is in on the joke or not.
The only thing Twilight isn’t about is anything resembling “character.” So when Vampire Studies replaces Animal Studies as the latest academic vogue, the big issue driving Twilight conferences will be one of translation—the transformation of the female protagonist, not from human to vampire but from first-person fictional narrator to movie star. Meyer’s Bella is a hopelessly incompetent plain Jane, an increasingly annoying and dreary loser who exposes her every vulnerability and insecurity to the reader; you can’t help wishing she would just shut up and go away. Kristen Stewart’s Bella is a gorgeous, regal, mumbly goddess whose blood sings not just to Edward but to the whole audience. Yet she, too, somehow disappears on screen, opening a window onto a grab-bag of thesis statements. It turns out it’s even easier to project an idea onto a girl when you don’t know what she’s thinking.

Vampire Studies | n+1

I’m not interested in Twilight at all. Haven’t read the books, won’t see the movies, much as I couldn’t have been bothered to care about Harry Potter back when friends of mine wouldn’t shut up about related ephemera. But this illustrates an important fallacy in thinking about pop: often what’s popular has nothing to do with interiority or relatability or other bugbears of middlebrow critical consensus. It exists by its own criteria, some of which may radically subvert accepted conventions of art.

Deeply hilarious photo.

Deeply hilarious photo.

Seeing the Jesus Lizard perform is not like seeing a show. It’s an experience, like putting your hand on a burning hot plate, setting yourself on fire, standing on the rim of an erupting volcano, spending a thrilling couple of hours in hell. More than any of their ’90s peers, the Jesus Lizard’s fidelity to punk’s promised erasure of the division between performer and audience has hardened into a kind of aesthetic credo. Their music-a brutalist deconstruction of Zeppelin’s rhythmic punch topped by an arty patois of dissonance and strangulated screaming from frontman David Yow-doesn’t just make you want to dance or nod your head. Its compression of pure id compels you to throw your body, violently, into other people. The live experience is a bristling, self-contained circuit of seething, barely contained aggression released into cathartic purgation.

And vice versa. Yow’s stagediving/crowdsurfing antics have now become iconic of a moment in the punk-rock zeitgeist, frozen in time by blurry Charles Peterson photographs. But seeing them live one understands how crucial the gesture is to the entire enterprise. It’s difficult to put into words the anticipation and exhilaration one experiences of seeing Yow prowl the stage before a song begins, coiling the mic cord around his fist, before jumping kamikaze-style into the teeming pit and being carried aloft, screaming all the while. The act is almost precognitive in its sledgehammer logic, animistically sexual in its magnetism. Though I tried to hold onto a pretense of cerebral distance as the show began, I found myself almost immediately drawn toward the dense chaos of clustering bodies in front of the stage. I was not alone: the sheer energy of the performance sucked all of us inward, the rocker guys in leather jackets and long hair, grunge nostalgists in flannel, Baltimore hardcore kids in skinhead, and me. At one point, Yow asked who in the audience was aroused; a thicket of hands raised, screaming, all of them men, the moment pregnant in its testosterone-fueled homoeroticism.

The Jesus Lizard played Baltimore on Friday night, at the same time Bruce Springsteen played a soldout arena show across town. On the surface, they may seem like distant cousins in the rock family tree, separated by generic, ideological, and ontological categories. But I saw a charismatic frontman on Friday night, a rock Romantic with a Barnumesque showman’s instincts, anchoring a band of crack pros who pair tautness as an ensemble with state-of-the-art innovation on preexisting genre tropes, and a love for the art form that oozes out of everything they do. I think I saw the right show.

VIDEO: for those who’ve never seen them, this gives a pretty good idea. “Seasick” showcases one of the monster riffs of the last 20 years, and the whole song is anchored by a brilliantly simple idea, the lyric (manic shouts of “I can’t swim” as if from the mouth of a drowning man) echoing the riff echoing the stop-start structure and providing a map for eager listeners of the live experience.

PS One thing I didn’t mention above is how effective the SLOW songs were live. You’d think they would provide a breather but instead they seethe with tension, tightening and tightening until they explode and everyone has license to go even further nuts. By the end of the show, I was drenched with sweat, exhausted, grinning from ear to ear. As was everyone else in the room. Also, Yow jumped on my head during the 2nd encore.

PPS Also forget to mention how key humor is to the band, as it was to most bands of the Pigfuck school. White Zombie had its roots in the scene, and Rob’s films are perhaps the most monoculturally visible manifestation of the pigfuck aesthetic: heaps of horror, black humor, and a love of American Junk.

Elite athletes distinguish themselves through hard work, grit and, most importantly, raw talent. However new research, along with a study conducted by New Scientist, points to another trait of the most accomplished jocks: a handsome face.

Better-looking sportsmen more likely to win - science-in-society - 19 November 2009 - New Scientist

This makes the career accomplishments of Sam Cassell, Franck Ribery, and Alexander Ovechkin all the more impressive.

findlilyhere:

this is adorable.

This is annoying. Congrats on getting married. Nobody else fucking cares.

findlilyhere:

this is adorable.

This is annoying. Congrats on getting married. Nobody else fucking cares.

lichtenblog:

What a tragedy.  A stomach-punch loss.  So many feelings.  I used to love watching France play, and I hate this current bunch for making me hate them, if that makes sense.  I blame myself as well: I wondered aloud about Ireland blowing this game after missing two breakaway chances to score the decisive goal.  Ugh.
Premier League blog, soccer news and football shirts from EPL Talk

We saw this coming in GChat, didn’t we. I think I remember typing something like “really hope France doesn’t steal this in extra time.”
On a lighter note, look at the way Henry tenderly caresses his handball. Stroking lovingly. Impressive technique.
Headlines so far: “The Hand of a Clod,” “Touched by the Hand of Fraud,” and, my favorite, “Thierry Henry is an insincere cheat who has tarnished his reputation for good.” Well, now.

lichtenblog:

What a tragedy.  A stomach-punch loss.  So many feelings.  I used to love watching France play, and I hate this current bunch for making me hate them, if that makes sense.  I blame myself as well: I wondered aloud about Ireland blowing this game after missing two breakaway chances to score the decisive goal.  Ugh.

Premier League blog, soccer news and football shirts from EPL Talk

We saw this coming in GChat, didn’t we. I think I remember typing something like “really hope France doesn’t steal this in extra time.”

On a lighter note, look at the way Henry tenderly caresses his handball. Stroking lovingly. Impressive technique.

Headlines so far: “The Hand of a Clod,” “Touched by the Hand of Fraud,” and, my favorite, “Thierry Henry is an insincere cheat who has tarnished his reputation for good.” Well, now.

As she juggled triple duties, slicing lemons, pulling beer tap handles and dealing with dysfunctional computers, Anita Stinson-Kurth could have been forgiven if she claimed she won’t miss the Uptown Bar & Cafe. But there really wasn’t any chance of her saying that.

“It’s been quite a social life: spending every day talking to the old regulars and the kids,” said Stinson-Kurth, who has tended bar at the Uptown, one of Minneapolis’ cornerstone rock clubs, since 1974 — long enough to see her sons Bob and Tommy perform there in the Replacements.

Also still psyched for this. This article is filled with insane shit.
Herzog thought Cage was using real cocaine.

“We had prop cocaine. Nicolas would sniff it, and I would ask him to shift positions,” Herzog recently recalled. “From the moment I would ask him to move, he would be acting erratic. All of a sudden, I had the feeling: For God’s sake, has he taken cocaine?”
“I would be psyching myself up, using my imagination to believe I was really blasted on coke,” Cage said. “I take this little vial of saccharine-type stuff, and I would snort it and try to build that fourth wall around myself, get all agitated so I could believe I was this crazy cop who was high. And Werner would say to me, ‘Nicolas, what is in that vial?’ I’d be like, ‘You’ve got to be kidding!’ “

I knew Cage had money problems and was a crazy dude (Lisa Marie Presley, the Luke Cage connection, and so on), but I had no idea he was enacting a real-life National Treasure fantasy.

According to published reports, over the years Cage bought two Bahamian islands, more than dozen houses around the world, scores of exotic sports cars as well as dinosaur skulls, meteorites and yachts (he’s suing former money manager Samuel J. Levin and his firm for $20 million in Los Angeles Superior Court, claiming Levin fattened his own bank account while “sending Cage down a path toward financial ruin”).

I want Werner and Nic to continue making movies forever. They are very cute together.

Herzog reached Cage by phone in Australia where he was shooting the sci-fi mystery film “Knowing.” And the two almost instantly reached an agreement to work together, thereby getting the project greenlighted. “We had a concordance of hearts that existed over 30 years, unbeknownst to each other,” Herzog said at the memory with barely contained glee.

DER IGUANAZEIT!

Herzog also lived up to the producers’ expectation by concocting one of the movie’s most memorable scenes on the fly: a long, impressionistic sequence in which Cage’s character hallucinates seeing iguanas while on a stakeout of a suspected killer’s home. In keeping with a motif that runs through many films in Herzog’s filmography — man and nature vying for supremacy — the actor is framed peering quizzically at the scaly beasts from the iguanas’ point of view while primal rock music blares. The scene proved to be a breakthrough for the director, one Cage remembers as “the defining moment” of working on the movie. Herzog’s epiphany took place at a party about midway through shooting. “Werner had had a couple of drinks,” Cage said. “He said in this distraught voice, ‘The iguanas are the best thing in the movie. And I must have five minutes of iguana time! And if I don’t have my full five minutes of iguana time, I will never make another movie again!’ “

Also still psyched for this. This article is filled with insane shit.

Herzog thought Cage was using real cocaine.

“We had prop cocaine. Nicolas would sniff it, and I would ask him to shift positions,” Herzog recently recalled. “From the moment I would ask him to move, he would be acting erratic. All of a sudden, I had the feeling: For God’s sake, has he taken cocaine?”

“I would be psyching myself up, using my imagination to believe I was really blasted on coke,” Cage said. “I take this little vial of saccharine-type stuff, and I would snort it and try to build that fourth wall around myself, get all agitated so I could believe I was this crazy cop who was high. And Werner would say to me, ‘Nicolas, what is in that vial?’ I’d be like, ‘You’ve got to be kidding!’ “

I knew Cage had money problems and was a crazy dude (Lisa Marie Presley, the Luke Cage connection, and so on), but I had no idea he was enacting a real-life National Treasure fantasy.

According to published reports, over the years Cage bought two Bahamian islands, more than dozen houses around the world, scores of exotic sports cars as well as dinosaur skulls, meteorites and yachts (he’s suing former money manager Samuel J. Levin and his firm for $20 million in Los Angeles Superior Court, claiming Levin fattened his own bank account while “sending Cage down a path toward financial ruin”).

I want Werner and Nic to continue making movies forever. They are very cute together.

Herzog reached Cage by phone in Australia where he was shooting the sci-fi mystery film “Knowing.” And the two almost instantly reached an agreement to work together, thereby getting the project greenlighted. “We had a concordance of hearts that existed over 30 years, unbeknownst to each other,” Herzog said at the memory with barely contained glee.

DER IGUANAZEIT!

Herzog also lived up to the producers’ expectation by concocting one of the movie’s most memorable scenes on the fly: a long, impressionistic sequence in which Cage’s character hallucinates seeing iguanas while on a stakeout of a suspected killer’s home. In keeping with a motif that runs through many films in Herzog’s filmography — man and nature vying for supremacy — the actor is framed peering quizzically at the scaly beasts from the iguanas’ point of view while primal rock music blares.

The scene proved to be a breakthrough for the director, one Cage remembers as “the defining moment” of working on the movie.

Herzog’s epiphany took place at a party about midway through shooting. “Werner had had a couple of drinks,” Cage said. “He said in this distraught voice, ‘The iguanas are the best thing in the movie. And I must have five minutes of iguana time! And if I don’t have my full five minutes of iguana time, I will never make another movie again!’ “
Friday. Psyched.

Friday. Psyched.

In 1969, we were very free. I turned twenty-seven—too old to be a hippie, after having been too young to pull off being a beatnik—and was so free as to be practically useless, writing just enough to finance days abed in a tiny Sullivan Street apartment, where I convalesced from many drugs, a broken marriage, and other ills of frenetic years on the downtown poetry and art scenes. I almost roused myself to attend Woodstock. Nixon became President. Vietnam churned on. Tidings of the Manson family and the Weathermen intensified a sense of concatenating disaster. Black Power, nascent feminism, and Stonewall discomfited straight white guys like me. (Being on the side of the angels is hard when the angels are mad at you.) In the art world, “New York Painting and Sculpture: 1940-1970,” which opened in 1969, at the Metropolitan Museum, and was curated by the owlish hipster Henry Geldzahler, summarized swiftly receding glories. Philip Guston, whose hypersensitive abstractions I had revered, was painting R. Crumb-like goofball imagery, for which it would take me more than a decade to forgive him. After a psychedelic efflorescence, color died. This I’ve confirmed on visits to “1969,” a huge show of works from the Museum of Modern Art’s collections, at P.S. 1, the museum’s affiliate in Long Island City. A grayer affair, in mood as in hue, cannot be imagined. It vivifies a reign of asceticism that followed upon our surfeit of freedom. Spiritual hair shirts were in fashion.

“1969,” at P.S. 1 review : The New Yorker

I know, the back of the book is A Problem at the NY, but does anyone else write criticism as pleasurably lucid as Peter Schjeldahl?

Classy day for Bud Adams.

There may only be one!!

Inspired to post this after watching Colbert’s reaction to the Lou Dobbs exit stage right.

This and the Star Trek movie about whales and time travel comprise some of my fondest early pop-culture memories. My dad’s taste for junk movies is second to none.

Of course, now I realize it was just a Blade Runner pastiche with Claymores.

Rewatching Raising Arizona recently, on the bonus materials the Coens said Cage was very difficult to work with. Obsessed with getting his hair to stick up in just the right kind of crazy way, bent on finding the right energy for each scene, the kind of actor who needs to find a “key” for his character, etc. Doubt they’ll work with him again, just as I doubt David Lynch would, but man Arizona and Wild at Heart sure are ineffably weird and distinctively Cagean.

Isn’t Dargis arguing that traditional critical rules go out the window when you try to evaluate this guy? She does a good job outlining Cage’s range and his bizarre sensibility, but she doesn’t quite have the chops (or the space) to nail down the essence of his insanity, IMO. Also, is this the first NYTimes crit piece to use a fanmade Youtube clip as a serious portion of its analysis?

lichtenblog:

I think he’s probably one of those guys who’s probably dim to begin with, making him an occasionally great actor.  He’s also probably a bit nutso as well, which has been more apparent the past years/decade.

drewarthur:

“… with some actors who risk absurdity the highs can be as exhilarating as the lows. You chance the sludge for genius.”

- Manohla Dargis, limning the Nic Cage oeuvre.