Big time congrats to the Niles Essanay Silent Film Museum, one of the few places on the planet that screens amazing vintage silent-era movies every weekend, on their first decade of stellar contributions to the South Bay cultural landscape.
As the poster notes, there will be a screening of Lilac Time, co-starring silver screen icon Gary "Coop" Cooper with the winsome Colleen Moore, a week from today, February 26, at 7:30 p.m., at the museum's Edison Theatre. Dr. Jon Mirsalis, who, among countless appearances accompanying silents, performed an exceptional, rousing original score for Wild Bill Wellman's epic Wings at the museum, will be waxing poetic on the Kurzweil.
Niles Essanay Silent Film Museum, 37417 Niles Boulevard, Fremont, CA 94536-2949
"Even in the best film noir, isn't there always a moment when you ask yourself "what the hell is going on?" Trish, author of the entertaining and well-written I Wake Up Screaming film noir blog
What's the Psychotronic Paul pick as the classic cartoon most in tune with the tension-inducing yet dreamlike visual milieu - the lighting, use of black and white, claustrophobic camera compositions - and underlying confusion-paranoia of film noir? The following Columbia Phantasy, The Vitamin G-Man, courtesy of the much maligned and ever-twisted Screen Gems Studio:
For the exact same reasons many historians absolutely loathe Columbia cartoons - its randomness and complete disregard for anything remotely resembling the fundamentals of story/sight gag construction (even as loosely practiced in animated cartoons) - I love this.
In second place by a molecule is Duck Pimples, an uncharacteristically wacky Disney cartoon, helmed by the studio's best comedy director, the criminally underrated Jack Kinney - with story by Dick Shaw and VIP Partch. While color is not my preference for noir visual styling, the content features key elements of noir.
The only reason Flora, a very funny sendup of film noir directed by Alex Lovy for the Screen Gems Studio
Tops would be the hilarious whodunit spoofs: Bob Clampett's The Great Piggy Bank Robbery (starring "Duck Twacy")
Comedy writer Merrill Markoe has pulled a "What's Up, Tiger Lily" with a Hanna-Barbera cartoon, and in so doing created a recent attempt at Cartoon Noir; it strikes me as much more along the lines of a European (Western or Eastern) existentialist road picture than a noir, but did make me laugh - and the Peter Lorre voice is a hoot. And besides, there are no Quick Draw McGraw cartoons that I know of involving alcoholism, mistaken identities, the urban jungle, chain-smoking, gangsters, psycho killers, impending doom or equine Joan Bennetts.
Reading the scholarly prose of many talented contributors to the For The Love Of Film (Noir) Blogathon - including David Robson's fascinating review of the recent anime noir by the creator of the Cowboy Bebop TV series - got me pondering yet again whether there actually such a thing as "cartoon noir", even realizing that there's a 1999 animated feature antholgy by that very title.
I'm not so sure that there actually is such a thing as a pure "cartoon noir", all the animated goodies referenced here notwithstanding. The closest, the singularly darkest, most despairing noir-toon I have ever seen was a Columbia Phantasy, Lionel Lion, including alcoholism, hallucinations, delirium tremens and child abuse, written and voiced by a very likely hungover John McLeish. Never been able to find a copy of it anywhere. . .
Cartoon characters, unlike the doomed denizens of noir, can only be killed or maimed for a gag; if an animated Gloria Grahame gets viciously blasted in the face with scalding coffee by a Lee Marvin caricature, she's back in the next scene, 100% healed - leaving Lee's jaw to drop to the floor and his bloodshot bad guy eyeballs to fall out of their sockets in utter disbelief.
Once conceding the obvious, that Tex Avery and Fritz Lang possessed wild, unfettered imaginations and totally opposite sensibilities - at that point, one forgets all about such comparisons and watches a DVD of My Name Is Julia Ross, just one masterpiece by B-movie and noir auteur Joseph H. Lewis (Gun Crazy, The Big Combo).
That is, after donating to the Film Noir Foundation.
The Self-Styled Siren and Ferdy On Films co-host the Film Preservation Blogathon, A.K.A. For The Love Of Film (Noir) Blogathon, which started yesterday and extends through February 21.
Hopefully, the blogathon will raise 1947 vintage Brinks trunks full of do-re-me for the cause of film preservation. The fundraiser is not only inspiring terrific writing, but even has its own promotional trailer, created by Greg Ferrara!
Here's a link to the Pay Pal page for the fundraiser, which also has a Facebook group.
The Film Noir Foundation has been instrumental in the re-evaluation and preservation of the fascinating dark corners of American post-WW2 cinema. The latest vintage film noir targeted for restoration by the UCLA Film And Television Archive: Cy Endfield's hard-hitting drama The Sound Of Fury.
Although American genre films were acclaimed as early as the mid-1950's by Cahiers du cinéma filmmaker-critics Francois Truffaut, Jean-Luc Godard and Claude Chabrol, it took decades and the persistent efforts of historians for film noir to get respect - and for the following taut, provocative thrillers to make the transition from overlooked programmers to celebrated classic movies.
And. . . to indirectly continue the blues thread from yesterday's posting, but tie it into the For The Love Of Film (Noir) Blogathon, listen to the following smoky, bluesy, most atmospheric "noir jazz" pieces by the great Duke Ellington and Charles Mingus. If these compositions don't conjure visions of a messed-up looking Robert Mitchum, face down underneath a barstool and pondering why his magic carpet ride has become an inexorable, screaming toboggan to Hell on the Death Spiral Express, nothing will.
In my (not humble) opinion, Valentine's Day, even though I wrote a rambling, unwieldy posting about it three years ago, is, without a doubt, the SUCKIEST of holidays.
Now, I'm as romantic as the next guy (and very likely more so), but this is a consumerist and selective holiday, designed specifically to sell stuff. While the non-religious can celebrate Christmas and folks who would be emphatically barred from serving in the military can gleefully barbeque meats on July 4 and Veterans Day, can people without partners celebrate Valentine's Day?
By definition, good ol' VD Day harshly divides everyone into haves and have-nots, as if we need more of that. As they used to say at county fairs, what a crock!
So forget the sucky holiday ever existed and enjoy the outstanding music of Chicago blues master Samuel Maghett, a.k.a. Magic Sam, born on February 14, 1937.
Sadly, Sam has long since left this music and healing hungry planet, but the remastered West Side Soul, fortunately for music lovers, has been reissued by the wonderful Delmark Records (the same label that re-issued Hawk Squat by another Chicago guitar genius, J.B. Hutto) and remains in print.
Here's Sam, making magic with the personal axe of another under-recorded treasure, slide guitarist Earl Hooker.
And now for something completely different - a rare moment with the writer of "Way Too Damn Lazy To Write" this blog, which appears to be running out of steam after 460 motley entries.
Largely due to ongoing and pesky (as well as very Food Network unfriendly) health issues, I find that my will to continue posting is at least half-diminished, if not as diminished as a Django Reinhardt uber-riff-flourish running the entire fretboard of his beloved Macaferri.
The links section here spotlights a fair number of bloggers who not only post frequently, but direct a tremendous amount of time, effort and writing chutzpah into their blogs.
Today, instead of actually writing a blog entry, I'll just pick one from the aforementioned links to recommend with The Psychotronic Paul Seal Of Approval: John McElwee's Greenbriar Picture Shows, just one among many amazing sources of enthusiastic, thoughtful and well-researched information about classic films.
Songstress Mary Cleere Haran (1952-2011) Still getting over frequent losses from the world of music - numerous jazz artists, rock guitar guru Ron Asheton, both Alex Chilton and Andy Hummel of the wonderful Big Star, and the truth teller, the preacher of soul, Mr. Solomon Burke.
Alas, here's yet another untimely loss, just a week after the passing of legendary film and television composer John Barry: that of the sprightly vocalist and expert on songs from stage and screen Mary Cleere Heran.
Ms. Haranwas much loved by aficionados of Broadway singing, the swinging Sinatra style and intimate cabaret performance for her stage presence and distinctive approach to classic standards.
Mary could, like Julie London, put a song over in a unique style.
It would be an understatement to say that she made quite an impact in her screen and television appearances! Before Pam Grier, before Kill Bill, before Kick-Ass, there was Tura.
Just why no one tried to make a "Green Hornet" sendup in 1970 featuring the rough-and-ready Tura as Kato, I don't know.
Indeed, an R-rated "Green Hornet", like an action-packed Kung Fu extravaganza starring Tura as the ultimate ass-kicking powerhouse, would have been fabulous and enduring entertainment, stretching from the drive-ins and grindhouse movie palaces to 21st century Blu-Ray players around the world.
San Francisco Bay Area pulp fiction author and columnist Will The Thrill Viharo has penned an excellent tribute to Tura.
br /> These queens of Broadway and B-movies will be much missed.
A friend of a friend of this blog is in dire economic straits and facing imminent eviction. Here's the direct link to the fundraiser that has been organized to stave off said eviction.
Said friend is not a Nigerian prince who clumsily misplaced $942,865,427 and loose change (and invariably needs all your credit card and checking account numbers RIGHT NOW), has no interest in personal information of any kind, and does not require a fleet of Brinks Trucks packed with gazillions to keep the rabid, slobbering wolves away from her door.
Actually, enough good samaritans throwing $20 into the kitty will do, but this coming Friday is the deadline. Donations are going to a secure ChipIn site, run by PayPal.
It's too bad the great American tradition of "the rent party" - quite the rage during the last Depression - has not been enthusiastically revived in the current lingering Great Recession.
If I was in the vicinity of her neck of the woods, I'd bring the guitar and sing Cole Porter, Vernon Duke, Harold Arlen, Frank Loesser, Hoagy Carmichael and Gershwin standards at the kind of swingin' rent party folks threw back in the day.
Would happily play that music until I, to steal a line from John Lennon, had "blisters on my fingers": swingin' till the cows came home, each bovine lightheaded, sore in the nether regions and unable to remember just which load o' bull was responsible.
It's a tough time to be a San Francisco Bay Area resident lacking mass quantities of both free time and discretionary income, augmented by multiple big-ass bank accounts and pockets deep enough to fit Sydney Greenstreet and Laird Cregar.
The last option, offering two classic thrillers in glorious 35mm for ten bucks, suits both my pocketbook and warped sensibility. Vintage coming attractions trailers for the hard-boiled double bills have been posted on the Noir City Film Festival website.
A happy day in Noir World entails heaping helpings of thuggery, skullduggery, chicanery, desperation, doomed relationships, dangerous double-crossing dames, sex-starved saps, roads leading nowhere, bullet-riddled sedans, nervous cigarette smoking, mobsters who make Jack LaRue's sleazy hood in (pre-code film noir precursor) The Story Of Temple Drake look like a nice fella, stark terror, claustrophobia and post-WW2 years ennui - all served up with stark yet stylish black & white chiaroscuro cinematography.
And besides, the idea of going to a Saturday matinee to see a Fritz Lang movie appeals to me for reasons I probably shouldn't ponder. . .
The Psychotronic Paul Question Of The Day is "how many times did standup philosopher-actor-writer-producer Richard Pryor and the long gone but not forgotten actor-comedian-singer-improv genius John Belushi appear together onscreen?".
First off, there was the Saturday Night Live episode that originally aired on December 13, 1975. Starting with a brilliant monologue by Pryor and including The Exorcist II and the Belushi-Pryor "dueling samurais" sketch, it is available on the Saturday Night Live: The Complete First Season DVD (which, while - unfortunately - not remastered or restored in any way, is still damn funny). If you have the premium (A.K.A. paid membership. . . darn) version of hulu, it can also been seen in its entirety there.
Secondly, Belushi was among the supporting cast in The Richard Pryor Special, broadcast on May 5, 1977. The following excerpt exemplifies the essential seriousness not far below the surface of Pryor's comedy, as well as Belushi's abilities as a character actor.
"The fact that you don't like it or get it - That's fine. The fact that you have to try and make everybody else feel bad for liking it - THAT'S what makes you an asshole."Bill Hicks (December 16, 1962 - February 26, 1994)
Why did I opt for this typically pungent Bill Hicks quote? It's not just because I find the late satirist fearless, trenchant, prescient and searingly funny. It derives from my unending disgust for the sub-human manners rampant throughout Al Gore's Internets over the past unhinged decade.
"Comments" sections in particular are often dominated by the immature and mentally deranged among us. Why these folks derive pleasure out of trashing and vilifying everything someone else might like, hiding behind anonymity in a "hit and run" fashion, I don't know.
Now there are folks who would accuse such cutting-edge satirists as Hicks, George Carlin, Richard Pryor, Lenny Bruce, Mark Twain or Jonathan "A Modest Proposal" Swift of doing exactly what I just described, viciously attacking everything they hold near and dear, but IMO, this would be totally off-base - and also, bluntly, perceiving the world strictly on Level One.
Since the mean-spirited and mind numbingly dim-witted are on just about every portal, all the social networking sites where we can choose to waste time, and dominating corporate broadcast media, it's a good idea to avoid the bullshit as if the words are carrying active, kill-you-painfully Ebola virus - because they are.
And now (thankfully, finally, at last - it's about fucking time), back to standup philosopher Bill Hicks:
First and foremost, that's the title of a great tune, sung to perfection by one of the best American entertainers of the 20th century, Dean Martin.
The phrase aptly describes what many people go through this year, not just due to trying external circumstances involving relationships and money (or, more to the point, the lack of them), but the short days, cold temperatures, grey skies and reduced sunlight.
On the other hand, Christmas Blues also means music I personally like to listen to that has healing properties. For example, these guys:
Now that's some happy blues.
But seriously folks, if you have any combination of:
friends, family members and/or a partner you can stand who are still living
food on the table
a roof over your head which is not in imminent danger of foreclosure or eviction
reasonably good health
Then thank your lucky stars and thank 'em again, that is the freakin' grand slam, pinch yourself to make sure the good fortune is real - that equals one fabulous Christmastime.
So (imagine the voice of Clark Gable here), dammit, give them all a hug, tell them you love them NOW, while they're still here! And, to those intrepid individuals who take action to make things better, get off their derrieres and do something about the suffering in the world, not just today but the other 364 days a year, we tip our hats to you; you're the best.
Merry Christmas To All And To All A Good Night from Way Too Damn Lazy To Write A Blog.
While today would have been the 70th birthday of the inventive, very prolific composer-bandleader-arranger-guitarist Frank Zappa - and that merits a trip over to Wolfgang's Vault for some Mothers Of Invention shows - it's apparent that on these shortest days of the year, my mind frequently gravitates to that guitar geek nirvana, the blues.
Last week the amazing Howlin' Wolf and a guy he inspired, the late, great Don Van Vliet, A.K.A. Captain Beefheart were deeply rooted in moi's consciousness. This week: the London-born master of blues and rock guitar, Peter Green.
First off, if you don't know who Peter Green is, drop everything you are doing, turn off your television, cell phone or PDA, get the hell off Facebook (unless you're on FB's Peter Green Tribute page) and listen to this guy play.
Check out these soulful pieces from Peter's stretch with John Mayall's Blues Breakers.
And enjoy Peter's guitar wizardry with Fleetwood Mac (Note: blog readers who do not, in any way, shape or form, enjoy the essential sound of non-metal/punk style electric guitar or the blues are excused).
Peter could also write gorgeous introspective ballads. This one, "Man Of The World", is particularly beautiful and, sadly, more than hints at the serious personal problems that would meet the gifted guitarist just around the corner:
The lush, ambient instrumental "Albatross", co-written by Green and Danny Kirwan, was a big hit in England for Fleetwood Mac.
Unfortunately, the 1967-1971 Fleetwood Mac, arguably up there with The Who as the greatest of British rock bands, would be stalked by tragedy (mostly caused by extended over-use of LSD-25).
Fortunately, the Peter Green-led version of Fleetwood Mac recorded prolifically enough to leave many hours of remarkable music behind, especially on the Live At The Boston Tea Party recordings and the April 9, 1970 BBC performance on CD 2 of the Show Biz Blues set.
Alas, the story for the incendiary, passionate, hard rocking version of Fleetwood Mac ended abruptly and not at all well. Slide guitarist, Elmore James aficionado, cutup and specialist in Elvis-Buddy Holly-Eddie Cochran style rockabilly Jeremy Spencer went AWOL to join the Children Of God cult, while Green and co-lead guitarist Danny Kirwan, after dropping copious quantities of acid in Munich, subsequently suffered decades of severe health problems.
Green and Spencer have resurfaced in recent years, still playing the blues after the heavy dues. After making his last recording at the age of 28, Danny Kirwan dropped as far out of sight as Syd Barrett did (and, unfortunately, for the same reasons); by all accounts, Mr. Kirwan is still living, but has been in and out of mental institutions in London. If Danny plays the guitar or writes songs, it's strictly for himself - and that, dear blog readers, is one incalculable loss to the world of music.
Meanwhile, the founders and rhythm section mates who the group was named after, bassist John McVie and percussionist Mick Fleetwood, would be the only original Fleetwood Mac members still in the band after its transformation from British blues-rock-psychedelia juggernaut to hit-making commercial pop powerhouse.
After leaving Fleetwood Mac, Peter Green recorded The End Of The Game, a progressive rock album with improvisational jazz leanings, then disappeared due to health problems through much of the 1970's until the release of the solo record In The Skies. He would re-emerge in the 1990's leading Peter Green's Splinter Group.
The ever-fabulous Lillian Roth (1910-1980), beaming that inimitable "I'm here - let's put on a show" smile
Born on December 13, 1910 (besides actor Van Heflin): actress-songstress-comedienne Lillian Roth, sprightly musical star of stage, screen and television.
Although eternal flapper femme fatales Clara Bow and Louise Brooksarguably equal her for exuding that certain sultriness that draws fellas ga-ga - and into movie theatres in droves - nobody (other than Marilyn Monroe) could put a song over with quite the mixture of vivacity, panache and genuine sexiness ofMiss Lillian Roth in her 1930's heydey. Here's a clip from one of her many appearances in the classic Fleischer Studio Screen Songs (A.K.A. "follow the bouncing ball") cartoons:
She also sings in one of the rare examples of a musical interlude in a Marx Brothers movie that doesn't prompt one to instantaneously hit the fast forward button on the DVD player or go to the frig and grab a cold one.
Lillian starred in musical shorts for Paramount, Vitaphone/Warner Brothers, Educational and Universal. I posted the wonderful 1934 Vitaphone opusStory Conference - which only received a minimal release on the 1993 Forbidden Hollywood Collectionlaserdisc -here last August 15. While pleased that the following spunky 1930 short, Meet The Boyfriend, is both up on YouTube and available on the Hollywood Rhythm, Volume 2DVD, I would like to find more of these mini-musicals, including a memorable Paramount one-reeler in which she stars as a lonely cigarette girl working in a cheesy nightclub.
Her other claim to fame was as one of the first celluloid entertainment celebrities to parlay her memoirs - one seriously painful life story - into a best-selling book. MGM's movie adaptation of her autobiography, I'll Cry Tomorrow, would be a hit biopic, for which Susan Hayward would be nominated for the Best Actress Oscar.
I'll Cry Tomorrow had to be among the first of the pre-rock music era "warts, alcoholism, sex, trashed hotel rooms, ruined marriages and all" tomes; Errol Flynn's aptly titled My Wicked, Wicked Ways and Louise Brooks' Lulu In Hollywoodwere not published until several years later. For the full, sordid effect, read the book first, then watch the sanitized MGM movie version - that is, if angst-ridden celebrity confessionals are your cup of tea.
Personally, I don't care for the "full, sordid effect". Can't say I want to know just how terribly this likable, talented performer suffered, even with the awareness that she made a successful show biz comeback in later life. Such sordid tales of offstage misery bring to mind a Van Dyke Parkslyric from the Orange Crate Art album (a "good 'un" from 1995, featuring maestro Brian Wilson on lead vocals and lush background chorus overdubs): "Movies is magic. Real life is tragic." I'd rather just watch the irrepressible, indefatigable Lillian Roth light up the silver screen.
By cracky, it warms the cockles of this blogger’s heart, if not necessarily his gonads, to announce that the KFJC Psychotronix Film Festivalreturns to Foothill College for our customary "second Saturday in December" blowout this very weekend!
Robert Emmett of KFJC-FM’s Norman Bates Memorial Soundtrack Show (the closest thing to an audio version of our presentations) hosts yet another four hours of jaw-dropping forgotten footage that takes a sneaky peek at just what's underneath those pesky ingrown toenails on the grimy foot of popular culture.
Yes, that means yet another dumbfounding delirious kaleidoscopic blend of indescribably weird cartoons and musical shorts, B-movie trailers, vintage commercials, monster movie clips, bloopers, educational films gone wrong - and other assorted flotsam and jetsam from our cinematic past.
Since your house is in foreclosure, you have very likely been downsized without severance pay and you've cashed out your 401K, a full evening of eye-staggering entertainment for less than ten bucks sounds. . . well, it could be worse, a lot worse!
On the other hand, if you among those still employed, I suggest enjoying a late lunch/early dinner atChef Chu'sand then heading on up the hill to . . .
The KFJC Psychotronix Film Festival Saturday December 11, 2010 at 7:00 p.m. Room 5015, Foothill College 12345 El Monte Road, Los Altos Hills, CA (El Monte Road exit off of Highway 280)
These shows frequently sell out, so show up early. Doors open at 6:00 p.m.
Matt Brubeck played the living daylights out of the cello as a member of the Berkeley Symphony Orchestra and numerous other ensembles. In the mid and latter 1990's, Matt performed with a favorite S.F. Bay Area band of mine, the wonderful Oranj Mancinis, featuring saxophonist Ralph Carney, guitarist Joe Gore, keyboardist Rob Burger and either Scott Amendola or Pat Campbell on drums.
Here are pianist Darius, bassist-trombonist Chris and percussionist Dan performing in, you guessed it, The Brubeck Brothers Quartet.
The original, prolific and highly creative pianist-composer-bandleader Dave Brubeck was born on December 6, 1920 in Concord, CA. In his case, 90 years young is accurate; Mr. Brubeck is still playing superb music at an age when most people are long deceased or suffering from severely impaired mental and physical functioning.
Here's a clip from a 1983 interview with Dave:
The secret of his success and longevity? Beats me, but I can imagine Mr. Brubeck steered clear of what comedian Sam Kinison wryly and accurately termed "life-killers"; the obvious ones involve substance abuse, while the less obvious would be consumption of greasy "road food" and a sedentary lifestyle. He received Kennedy Center Honors in 2009 and got to hear the following all-star ensemble (BIll Charlap, Christian McBride, Jon Faddis, Bill Stewart, Miguel Zenon) play his compositions.
So, the directive for musicians is to play your favorite Brubeck composition - I'm personally a sucker for "In Your Own Sweet Way" - sometime before the stroke of midnight on December 6, although it's a good idea anytime.
Brubeck aficionados can pick an album from his prolific catalog; I've cued up the February 21, 1963 performance of The Dave Brubeck Quartet At Carnegie Hall, featuring the amazing group that recorded Time Out and Time Further Out: Paul Desmond (alto saxophone), Gene Wright (bass) and Joe Morello (drums).
Eighty years ago today, on December 3, 1930, at a screening of the new, provocative feature film by surrealists Salvador Dalí and Luis Buñuel, L' Age D'Or (A.K.A. The Golden Age), members of the pro-fascist organization The League Of Patriots went on the offensive, attacking members of the audience and hurling ink at the screen. As if merely breaking up the screening and beating up attendees were insufficient, the brownshirts also destroyed art works on display in the lobby by Dalí, Joan Miró, Man Ray, Yves Tanguy and others.
The first question that comes to mind would be just what Dalí and Buñuel's dadaist epic, did to make the bluenoses in 1930 go berserk, at least two years before goose-stepping fascist groups truly became the rage throughout Western Europe.
Well, for starters, there's the ol' subject (referred to by one of this blogger's favorite movie director-writers, Preston Sturges, as "Topic A") of sex. The kind of kinky seen in L' Age D'Or and strongly implied in Josef von Sternberg's The Blue Angel and G.W. Pabst's films, never quite hit the silver screen on Main Street U.S.A., but unabashed sexiness reigned in commercial movie theatres via the popular pre-code romps starring Metro-Goldwyn-Mayer diva Norma Shearer, Jean Harlow and other early 1930's favorites.
L'Age D'Or, yes indeedy do, was the first of many Buñuel "love letters" to the Roman Catholic Church, calculated to offend, thumbing its cinematic nose at convention every step of the way; it was less overtly violent than its predecessor, Dalí and Buñuel's short surrealist film Un Chien Andalou (The Andalusion Dog), but demonstrated quite a bit more interest in fetishes and obsessive sexual urges. In both films, all societal, moral and religious taboos were fair game. Of course, the snotty, Pavlovian response from present-day movie buffs, brandishing Criterion Collection and Kino International DVDs is. . . WTF do you expect from a Luis Buñuel flick - freakin' Mary Pollyanna Poppins Of Green Gables On The Prairie?
The following excerpt from L' Age D'Or is, without a doubt, beloved by sculptors and shoe salesmen alike.
L' Age D'Or was officially banned a week later. Save for one unpublicized screening at New York City's Museum Of Modern Art in 1933, it did not have its official U.S. premiere until November 1, 1979 at the Roxie Cinema in San Francisco. Buñuel would, with the exception of the 1932 documentary Land Without Bread, not make another film until Los Olvidados in 1950.
Now one can see Dalí and Buñuel's anarchic opus, complete with further background info, in its entirety on YouTube. In evidence throughout the dadaist, finger and toe-sucking extravaganza: pungent irony, revulsion for upper-crust decadence, and the creative, striking uses of the camera, framing and editing that would be notable throughout Buñuel's filmmaking career.
Keep in mind just who was offended by L'Age D'Or, modern art in general, and just about anything threatening the social order (except - inevitably - wars, always regarded as not just A-OK but peachy by zealots, censors, hypocrites, would-be moralists, corrupt politicians and especially weapons profiteers).
Want something offensive? Hmmmmm - let's see. How about the craven cowardice of those who protected priests who committed molestations? How about the treatment of women in Moslem nations? How about suicide bombers and jihadists of all denominations? Now that's offensive!
And for the rest of this year, I promise to return to levity on this blog. Please forgive me, readers!
