‘Til the madness around is gone

I’ve declared a moratorium on current Hollywood films and on TV series from Netflix et al. Don’t get me wrong: I actually love being educated on pluralism, lgtbism, feminism, intersectionalism; I enjoy being shown how bad, aggressive, sexually predators white men are; I love watching male buttocks and what not, and wouldn’t dare want to see a bit of female flesh with filthy, lusty eyes; I can’t but applauding when the Asian character, the lesbians lovers, the African-American gay couple, the husband humbly backing up and sacrificing all to his empowered and outwardly Ennui woman’s career, show up. They invariable do, as of course they should.

But I…, I know I shouldn’t but… —I get bored. I’m ashamed of myself and I’m sorry and I say so. It’s a bit like the Catholic mass of my youth —necessary, rightly compulsory, predictable, and reassuring —but what a bore! I apologize and promise to reform and like the shows and internalize the truth and re-socialize myself in the right way. In the meantime, though,

Episode 6 of season 1 of Upstairs, Downstairs, A Cry for Help, stands out in the series. Written by Julian Bond, the lines spoken to Lord Bellamy by his solicitor showing him how he would serve himself and his family better by way of retracting his rape accusations against a fellow nobleman and by dropping the defense of his pregnant young maid are devastatingly brilliant. And directed by Derek Bennett, what could have been another common story to cater to the audience turns into a bitter yet way more satisfying one, in which upstairs is beaten, both in knowledge of the ways the world goes round and in generosity and goodwill, by downstairs.

Likewise, episode 15 of season 1 of M*A*S*H, Tuttle, is a joy to watch. Also masterfully written and directed, you could say it’s a novel take in the classic, for a reason, The Emperor’s New Clothes‘ tale. Hawkeye and Trapper make up an entirely fictitious Captain Tuttle, who nonetheless ends up being buried with honors, with the whole platoon claiming his friendship or acquaintance.

Prizes bah

Sunday evening. The Emmys are around, and so many times J. said about watching The Americans but we didn’t, and what if it wins? So we hurry to watch its first episode and it’s not so good —almost quite bad, or worse —quite average.

And the Emmys… are you kidding me, Emmys? The almost insufferable season six of Game of Thrones takes it all? Come off it!

Monday morning. Three fourths into My Brilliant Friend by the ghostly Elena Ferrante and she tries but she doesn’t reach. Elena, if you want to succeed at depicting an irresistible power one person unwillingly, or not, have over another, just go and read the masterpiece —Maugham’s Of Human Bondage.

Speaking about ghosts, I have a feeling that a movie I saw a few months ago is better than the credit I gave it then —you know that when it comes back to you, unexpectedly: The Awakening.

Daredevil

I fully enjoyed Neflix’s Marvel’s Daredevil, season 2 (season 1 too, of course). I was:

  • Surprised  by the plot’s turns (very imaginative, but neither far-fetched or fancy; almost never anticipated them).
  • Admired with the clever, patient way in which the screen writers have given evolving emotions to their character’s personalities —that both makes them credible and the psychology fine.
  • Pleased with the cinematography, the scenery, and the fighting choreography.
  • Astonished at how well attained an unexpected, subtle blend is between the comic book’s lines and stuff and those of ordinary life.

And great acting too.