Watch Hokusai, a short film on the artist’s life by Hiroshi Teshigahara

Žižek riffs on Spike Jonze’s film Her, Lacan, sex, a Taco Bell ad, The Lady Eve, and so on and so on

Film Poster for Terrence Malick’s Badlands — Tomer Hanuka

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Deckard and Pris among the Dolls (Blade Runner)

The Heart of the World, a short film by Guy Maddin

Owl (Blade Runner)

J.G. Ballard’s High Rise (Film Poster by Jay Shaw)

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Mirror Scene, Blood of a Poet (Jean Cocteau)

Eye (Blade Runner)



Deckard Reading (Blade Runner)



“All art constantly aspires towards the condition of music”

Infomercial: For-Profit Online University (Adult Swim)

A storyboard from Hayao Miyazaki’s film The Wind Rises

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Via/more.

A rambling and possibly incoherent riff on Inherent Vice (film and novel) and The Crying of Lot 49

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A. The first time I saw Paul Thomas Anderson’s film Inherent Vice, I was in the middle of rereading Pynchon’s novel The Crying of Lot 49, which I hadn’t read in fifteen years. I remembered the novel’s vibe, its milieu, but not really its details.

B. I read The Crying of Lot 49 and then immediately reread it. It seemed much stronger the second time—not nearly as silly. Darker. Oedipa Maas, precursor to Doc Sportello, trying not to lose the thread as she leaves the tower for the labyrinth, rushing dizzy into the sixties.

C. Another way of saying this: Inherent Vice is sequel to The Crying of Lot 49. Any number of details substantiate this claim (and alternately unravel it, if you wish, but let’s not travel there)—we could focus on the settings, sure, or maybe the cabals lurking in the metaphorical shadows of each narrative—is The Golden Fang another iteration of The Tristero?—but let me focus on the conclusions of both novels and then discuss the conclusion of PTA’s film.

D. A favorite line from a favorite passage from The Crying of Lot 49: “the true paranoid for whom all is organized in spheres joyful or threatening about the central pulse of himself.” Paranoia as a kind of sustained hope, a way to find meaning, order, a center.

E. The final pages of The Crying of Lot 49 find Oedipa trying to make sense of the labyrinth (my emphases in bold):

For it was now like walking among matrices of a great digital computer, the zeroes and ones twinned above, hanging like balanced mobiles right and left, ahead, thick, maybe endless. Behind the hieroglyphic streets there would either be a transcendent meaning, or only the earth. In the songs Miles, Dean, Serge and Leonard sang was either some fraction of the truth’s numinous beauty (as Mucho now believed) or only a power spectrum. Tremaine the Swastika Salesman’s reprieve from holocaust was either an injustice, or the absence of a wind; the bones of the GI’s at the bottom of Lake Inverarity were there either for a reason that mattered to the world, or for skin divers and cigarette smokers. Ones and zeroes. So did the couples arrange themselves. At Vesperhaven House either an accommodation reached, in some kind of dignity, with the Angel of Death, or only death and the daily, tedious preparations for it. Another mode of meaning behind the obvious, or none. Either Oedipa in the orbiting ecstasy of a true paranoia, or a real Tristero. For there either was some Tristero beyond the appearance of the legacy America, or there was just America and if there was just America then it seemed the only way she could continue, and manage to be at all relevant to it, was as an alien, unfurrowed, assumed full circle into some paranoia.

There is either meaning, or there is not meaning. Continue reading

Watch Seasons, a lovely animated short film by Yuri Norstein

Ship in a bottle (Inherent Vice)

RIP Leonard Nimoy

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RIP Leonard Nimoy, 1931-2015

I was born in 1979 and there was always Star Trek—always Spock. The reruns on local TV (after them, episodes of The Twilight Zone in black and white). Later, The Next Generation—it was the only show we, that is, my family, were permitted to watch while we ate TV. We ate pizza in front of it. Ambassador Spock made an appearance in a two-parter! Leonard Nimoy directed my favorite of the Star Trek films, Star Trek IV: The Voyage Home—you know, the one with the whales? The oh-so misunderstood one? Still love it. I remember watching it with my grandmother, she incredulous. Watching it again in college, laughing so hard. What a film. No Star Trek without Spock, no Spock without Nimoy…but he’s always there, his presence confirmed all the more by its absence. Live long &c.

Ship in a bottle (Inherent Vice)

Film Poster for Antonioni’s Blow-Up — Tomer Hanuka

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