How to deal with people trying to fuck with you on the train [a study of class division, race, psychology and humiliation]
This is a common problem in film, maybe not so common in real life [unless you're living on the train from 'Snowpiercer']. The train is a place where there is you [the self] and a lot of people you don’t know [the other], each one of you a being who doesn’t want to be humiliated in front of other people. This is basic human biology or psychology, one of the two.
So what do you do if someone wants to humiliate you?
If you’re normal, you sweat a bit and get off at the next stop, telling yourself it was the only realistic thing you could’ve done.
If you’re full of shit, you sweat a bit, get off at the next stop, go home then tell everyone you know you saw a guy getting bullied on the train and if it had happened to you then you would’ve ripped the guy’s tits off. If no one asks, you tell them anyway.
If you’re feeling strangely ex-military, you stare back hard and pose a little. Then you overthink things, lose focus, panic, remember it was Turtles in Time you survived, not the military, sweat a bit then get off at the next stop.
If you’re drunk, you shout a bit, get smacked and go down without swinging back.
If you’re Dana Carvey, it’s okay, you no longer exist.
What about French films?
If you’re Juliette Binoche in that Michael Haneke film I can’t remember the name of, and a French-Arab youth tries to talk to you, you get up and move to another part of the train. When he follows you and insults you and spits in your face, you say and do nothing. You put up an invisible [class?] barrier and pretend he’s not there.
Now the situation in this film is a more realistic showing of what can happen in real life. And there are three things to think about:
1] Juliette Binoche is the white, middle class xynto-type [the avatar of the viewer, as poor people don't watch Michael Haneke films] and the white middle class has a very strong anxiety about public humiliation [because everything else in their lives is so great]. Read more…
(hey… this poem is about the video game “shenmue” and basically nothing else)
They say that revenge is a dish best served cold, but maybe they just don’t sell it hot.
I went to the convenience store this morning and counted all the different kinds of rice ball. Imagining that later in the day I would get kicked in the head.
While my father’s corpse entered a new stage of decay and he shrugged off his face, I was lucky enough to receive in quick succession a Virtua Fighter gashapon figure that looked like me [Ryu] and like my father’s killer [Lau Chan]
I walk around town everyday and I talk to people but as I walk away I hear them say, “Shouldn’t he be avenging his father?” Why would I be asking about sailors and things like that if I wasn’t looking for revenge? You just can’t always find it in a concrete town.
The best thing about revenge is whether you kill the man or he kills you, you win.
The worst thing is non-revenge. Driving a fork lift truck is a step towards pulping the face, but no one knows. No one believes you can drive towards destiny in a fork lift.
When the transcendent moment comes I will get on my bike. Nozomi behind me to accentuate the wind in her chestnut hair and cashmere sweater.
When that moment comes, music will swell like never before. Cinematic camera angles will dominate.
At this exact moment, though, I am playing with a cat I found in a box. Meanwhile the world spins and winds up my revenge.
I just need to walk around, look around and be ready for the moment, quick with time.
I walk and avoid people for solid hours. I envy those that die in hot revenge, bloodied and without a second of doubt, bloated up by massive hormones. Bodies fall down like the leaves of autumn.
If I don’t complete my revenge before all the leaves are gone, then time will be taken away from me.
One of those stories that no one seems to like except me…
Might be disliked for the following reasons:
i] it is all over the place
ii] the Halle Berry scene
iii] the Korean killer from ‘Memories of Murder’ pops up and kills the schoolgirl [twice]
iv] the theme is not clear enough – it doesn’t stick with anyone close enough or long enough. The nearest thing to a main character is the alien scientist and he flits in and out.
I’m leaning towards ii]
In many ways Susan Sarandon was more than just the rut interest from Bull Durham and the ex-wife of Tim Robbins, she was also the mind interest of sub space aliens who conducted experiments with/in/outside of time.
It had started, the Sarandon interest, when a stray signal from Earth swerved and poked itself into sub space by mistake…and ended up on one of the screens inside an alien base only eight sub-parsecs from the Sol System [not that distance really mattered].
Alien: What’s this?
Alien 2: White Palace.
Alien: Well…I don’t like white, and I don’t really like palaces…wait, who’s that?
Alien 2: The one with the stick?
Alien 2: The one with the hills?
Alien: Yes, who is she?
Alien 2: Susan Sarandon.
Alien 2: I know. Read more…
The last one we did, not the one coming in Sept.
I get confused with the numbers too.
But it’s the one with this:
‘There was a deep knot forming in my stomach, the same knot I always got before going to see a new Eddie Murphy movie.’
Jean Luc Godard, on the set of ‘Breathless again’, 2015
…and now that he was spinning into the time-fucking Space hole, Robocop knew what year he wanted to go back to…
Tomomi Leung taking a crack at the Brasilian film industry
Tyson Bley analysis
The History of Vulcan Love Slave
Michael from ‘Prison Break’ in Ljubljana
Marc Horne stuff
If you want to have a read of it for nothing then download the PDF here: Gupter Puncher Issue 14
I don’t write about films that much, but this was a good one. I know it was good because it had ideas in it that I’d thought about before but never really seen expressed in a movie.
Plot: a priest sits in the confession box and is told by an unnamed person that he’s going to die a week on Sunday. He seems to know who it is, but we don’t. He walks around the village for the rest of the week, death sentence hanging over him, and meets the biggest collection of motherfuckers ever put on film. One of them is the potential killer. His daughter arrives after a suicide attempt and they look at Irish scenery together. Locations are windswept. Father Ted sets are re-used. Finally, a week on Sunday arrives and the priest goes to the beach to meet his killer.
Subplot: the villagers all have their little stories, or failing that, an attitude. Littlefinger turns up as an atheist doctor who is close in spirit to the Joker. The token black guy is, refreshingly, a complete twat, but not in a one note way. A French [Italian?] woman loses her boyfriend and is probably the only other truly decent person in the film, even when in deep grief. Or possibly because she’s in deep grief.
There isn’t really much of a plot, actually.
If you took away the ‘who’s gonna kill him’ element, you’d still have a strong film. I don’t know if the director realised that. Maybe he was advised to include the mystery angle to keep people watching or to get someone to fund the thing.
Or maybe the sense of foreboding is what he really wanted. The idea that the church and its priests are all stuck in a village-shaped Hell [semi-deservedly due to all the kiddie fiddling and attempted cover-ups] and the end is near. Read more…
Into the hall of mirrors I stagger pell-mell. It is so fast a thing to die, for a man with a fuzzy hook kill hand.
Boosh. Spear right through the chest. It feels like having your hand chopped off but much warmer.
Death comes in instants. Body says ‘why hang around?’ It releases the consciousness to the symmetries, then the similarities and then to all other elements.
If you die in a hall of mirrors, dying is broken.
I spin around the roundabout of death, speared on the spinning mirror door. Bleeding Bruce Lee regards me with forced menace. But really he is serene. He killed me like he kills a push up.
On the third spin I stagger pell-mell out of the hall of mirrors, inverted. Read more…
In the ongoing crusade to crusade on behalf of some guy in Germany who we’ve never even met…