The dentistry profession has come a long way since I last had work done. The new trend is to show movies to patients under the drill. Not unlike inflight entertainment, the viewing selections are all somewhere between populist and benign. Does it matter if I watch Paul Blart: Mall Cop two before one?
The anxiety of having my old fillings fixed aside, a different type of anesthetized panic set in when I was shown my viewing options. Was I going to have to watch Pixels (2015) or computer-generated Smurfs flit about the screen while my molars got filled with resin? Cringing at the prospects, I spotted an escape, a title called “TV Cartoon Classics.” “I’ll take that,” I told the dental tech.
The tech stared at the card for an uncertain second and shuffled off. When she returned, she explained that she was unaware that they even had it. “TV Cartoon Classics”, I figured, was no doubt a bunch of public domain cartoons like Herman the Mouse. Over two separate weeks, and two separate visits, I watched all Max Fleischer’s Gabby cartoons (and a couple Hermans).
First appearing as the town crier in the 1939 feature Gulliver’s Travels, between 1940 and 1941 Gabby was given to Fleischer by Paramount to direct1. The odd reference to the Lilliputians aside, the Gabby series has little to do with Swift’s satire, with each cartoon following Gabby, a wisearce with a taste for wise apples, who gets involved in various jobs and activities which he claims to be an expert and proceeds to bungle.
In Fire Cheese (1941), where Gabby becomes a firefighter, flames dance on buildings, blow blazes into each others’ mouths, and lick up the walls in hot ladders. Gabby, meanwhile, proves to be about as useful as Keith Flint giving pointers to Adele. Two for the Zoo (1941), my personal favorite, has Gabby claiming to be an authority on the fictional rubberneck kango, an animal that is a melange of kangaroo, giraffe, and elephant. By the cartoon’s conclusion, Gabby is locked in a cage as potential lion food.
Besides dentists’ offices, a complete Gabby cartoon can also be watched in the first-person shooter video game The Darkness released in 2007. I’m not familiar with the game, but I like to think that Gabby is a favorite of the figure featured on the game’s cover art, a standin for The Downdward Spiral-era Trent Reznor2. I’m guessing, however, Gabby’s occurrence in the game has more to do with irony, entropy, and that which is anachronistic.
In this light, it is probably no great shock that the Gabby animations are all but forgotten. The cartoon is perhaps too quaint and European in its sensibilities. Yet Gabby’s character is relatable and humorous enough; equally the cartoon’s sophisticated animation still shines through the faded public domain prints widely available today. Given the choice between it and the mediocrity of the Paul Blarts of the world, I’d still take Gabby. Hell, I’d take it over The Darkness, too.
In 1955 Gabby was sold to U.M. & M. TV Corporation, which later became National Telefilm Associates, the logo of which appears at the front of many of the available versions of the cartoon today. Later the cartoon would ironically return to Paramount when it was sold to Viacom, the multinational media conglomerate, which today owns Paramount. While Gabby can be purchased on DVD, the cartoons are now in the public domain. ↩
Kaneda and the Capsules arrive at a run down movie theatre hoping to score Valerian, only to discover that Valerian is a sci-fi flick. When they show up, it is debatable if one of them was aware of this and maybe wanted to actually see the movie. Heckling ensues, which quickly boils over into harassment of other theatre patrons and eventually edges into flatout violence and mayhem. This spectral visitant of Akria (1988) and Valerian and the City of a Thousand Planets (2017) keeps rattling in my head. It may well be heresy to fantasize about the anime classic and the hot mess of Valerian in this way, but it’s been hard to shake.
Besson’s Valerian stands as the most expensive French film ever made, costing around $150 million. Its premise follows a McLuhan-like global village that harbors an atrocity at its heart which must be atoned for. Sin and redemption along with some of the more interesting facets of the film, like Rihanna’s Bubble, get lost in the pastel shit-show. My wife likened the movie to an advertisement for a douche… in space, flowery, still a douche, and utterly pointless. Alien princesses pirouetting by vagina conch shells… a lot of the conversation surrounding Valerian has proceeded in these cheeky terms.
No doubt Valerian is destined to provide comic fodder for some time to come, but it is worth remarking on the connections between it and Akira. The films each find roots in comic books that are not of the superhero variety. Though I’ve yet to read Valerian, I imagine that like Akira, the comic is best considered as a separate text rather than an adaptation. Each also stands out in its contemporary big-budget cinematic landscape: Valerian for its euro-trash splash and Akira for its techno-phantasmagoria. Most of all, neither makes a whole lot of sense. In both the plot is obscured: for Valerian it’s all a high kamp kick with Cara Delevingne’s Sergeant Laureline never bothering to break runway strut, while for Akira it’s almost with a relish, a nod to the punk ethos of its Capsules, who in the face of conformity, conspiracy, and corporate-militarism continue to exert their identies and could really give two flying fucks about plot.
Ritual, art, membership to a cabal of manly-men-boxing-fools in a brew pub — these have never been associations I’ve had with shaving. As Tim has already indicated, our dad gave us a pretty abridged shaving tutorial. Along with scant demonstration, he may have mentioned, “Try not to kill yourself.” Whether he did or did not impart this final kernel of wisdom, there was no follow-up lesson or even a check-in to see if we had garroted ourselves.
As a result, for pretty much all of my shaving-life, I have half-shaved at best. My father’s lack of teaching surely contributed to this, but so did the milieu of the ’90s. In the social circles I traveled then, there was no stigma associated with whatever you decided to do with your facial hair. By the end of the ’90s and the early ’00s, I was shaving maybe once a week. Eventually I found a decent beard trimmer and with it, my shaving became more erratic. Sometimes I had a beard, sometimes I had a shadow, sometimes I was clean shaven, sometimes I had an experimental look, but most of the time I had some amount of hair on my face. This was largely because in those instances when I was clean shaven, I would never continue to do so beyond a couple days because I’d either forget to keep up with it or I got razor rash.
Still, I do razor shave on occasion, and when I do, for nearly two decades it has been with a Mach3. As Tim has also duly noted, the Mach3 is really the bane of shaving. After it materialized in 1998, the facial hair horizon was forever leveled. It is as if no other razor had ever existed since or after. With it, razor cartridges were to forever be things that existed behind locked glass, and the only thing better than three blades was more blades.
About a year and a half ago, I decided to razor shave; accordingly I dug out my Mach3. Problematically, I had no idea which blades were old, new, or rusted. Because I don’t razor shave that often, this frequently happens to me, and when it does I inevitably just go out and buy all new blades. This time, however, out of spite for the Mach3, I decided to explore other options. This eventually led me to buying a safety razor. While this does potentially mark me as a hipster, after reading up on them, I decided that I shaved infrequently enough to invest in something as arcane as it was asinine.
Colossal (2016) stomps a Godzilla flick into a giant-radioactive-lizard-sized black comedy about addiction. The premise: when party-hard Gloria, played by Anne Hathaway, gets tanked, she unwittingly summons a mega-monster that has a tendency to lay waste to the world-away city of Seoul, South Korea, around that sobering hangover-time of 8:05 AM. Through some inebriated sleuthing that involves genitalia-indicating dances, Gloria is eventually able to put this all together.
Nacho Vigalondo’s directorial proceedings teeter at the edge of the pop-baroque precipice, but Colossal never falls off. The movie offers enough twists and turns to remain entertaining and distract its audience from thinking too deeply about Gloria’s flight from New York City and her own cheap beer and boozey monsters to a picturesque small town that conveniently boasts an empty family mansion or… summer home. Sorting out details like these should matter, but in an era when most nights are nostalgic for mixtapes and wind up clinging to the cineplex-bar set by Gaurdians of the Galaxy 2, who the fuck is counting; Colossal’s hangovers are palatable.
Willem. It was pretty easy, Pink Hair (shrug it) in Mall photo booths if only it had of been Nisqually. monstering it at Quicker Bridge 206 was death princeton trenton divide wcw not www paterson And then I got into music. I used admissions of guilt ms. a-beaming And I thought I knew what I meant. And I thought. I Thought. . Continue reading Willem – A History
My cousin was doing a little Spring cleaning, and in an effort to make some room, he sent these goodies my way. I’m hoping over the summer I get a chance to breathe again and am able to dig a little deeper into them; in the meantime, however, they sure are neat to look at. The map and pieces for Sorcerer: The Game of Magical Conflict alone are incredible. And let’s be honest, you can’t really go wrong with Death Race 2000 on Blu-ray.
Who knows if I’ll ever get around to doing those twelve 2017 movie reviews… I did see Phantasm in the theatre; it may have been on Blu-ray, which was disenchanting to say the least. Thusly, I’m currently down on the notion of the theatre, so in lieu of cinema I wanted to talk about music. I hopped on Amazon music this evening and downloaded MP3s of a couple albums that I’d bought in physical formats. One album was Lana Del Ray’s Ultraviolence. I really liked her Honeymoon, but dear lord… the songs on Ultraviolence aren’t bad, but the production on the album actually hurts my ears. It doesn’t matter if I’m listening to it on CD or MP3; it sounds dreadful.
Conversely, David Bowie – my fu**ing god – I picked up two albums recently, Blackstar and Hunky Dory. The production on both is impecable. I know the former was on everyone’s best of list, but bear in mind this is coming from a respectful fan, not an avid fan (my wife is an avid fan; there’s a difference); Blackstar is like listening to the album Radiohead has been trying to record (A Moon Shaped Pool is pretty good, but it’s no Blackstar). However, where Blackstar sounds amazing, it is Hunky Dory that floors me; the album is 45 years old. Sure, it might not be Boston by Boston, but to my ears the production sounds fantastic. Point is that if you are looking to invest in some great sounding music, I can’t recommend the Bowie albums enough.