Hey, remember when Disney didn’t suck and blow simultaneously?
Deep down, most of us suspect that ol’ Uncle Walt was a sexist, racist, feeb-informing Machiavellian rat king. (Still, who doesn’t love Pinocchio?) And while there’s no doubt Disney’s recent corporate merge with Pixar and subsequent shakedown (leaving prodigies Lasseter, Catmull and Jobs steering the ship) will bring back much of the first company’s long lost artistry, the question bears repeating: have the past 20 years of Disney output blown epilepticpygmy goats,or what? Wtf happened?*
Never mind. Let’s focus on the semi-positive and take a look Disney’s chaotic neutral, pre-sucky years. I know I’m not the only one with fond recollections of the many offbeat live action flicks Disney produced in the late 70s and early 80s. Uncle Walt was in cryogenic deep freeze and the company’s heyday was fading, but gems like TRON, Something Wicked This Way Comes, and most poignantly their ridonkulous sci-fi space epic, The Black Hole all have a special place in this gal’s personal What Made Me Weird lexicon.
Yvette Mimieux gets some much-needed laser surgery.
Produced on the heels of Star Wars’ popularity, The Black Hole is one of Disney’s last gasps of cornball genius. Sure, it’s got problems. No originality, for starters. As one reviewer put it “[this is] nothing but a ‘creepy old house’ movie set in space.” Also, the screenwriters seem to have been unsure what demographic they were writing for, resulting in a plot that insults adult viewers’ intellects while still managing to scare the ever-loving crap out of children (and making The Black Hole the first PG-rated film in Disney history). Hokey dialog and unfortunate wardrobe choices abound. But if I’ve said it once, I’ve said it a hundred times; you can’t go wrong with Ernest Borgnine. If that’s not enough to entice you, there’s John Barry’s amazing score, the incredible scale models and sets, scene after scene featuring beautiful, richly colored matte paintings of deep space, and Anthony Perkins getting the Cuisinart treatment.
Best for last, the Maximilian <3 Reinhardt 4-Ebber (In Hell) ending:
Increasingly popular mask sweatshirts were recently banned by the administrators of Orange County’s Capistrano Unified School District. The concerned officials sent out mass emails warning parents to remember, while doing their holiday shopping, that kids won’t be able to wear such sweatshirts on campus. Tom Ressler, the principal of Capistrano Valley High said “There is no way to identify who kids are. Generally, we don’t think that is a good thing. It gives kids the opportunity to do something bad”.
The goggle jacket is causing a commotion in England – it isn’t illegal, but apparently the look is perturbing anyhow. According to AFP “models with dark colors convey the image of commandos or criminals, while ones with light colors give the impression of a nuclear or biological catastrophe”.
Artist Zdzislaw Beksiński is best known for his immense, obsessively detailed paintings of catastrophic landscapes, surreal humanoid figures and afflicted nudes. Born in 1929, he grew up in southern Poland, then traveled to Krakow to study architecture where he subsequently spent several miserable years working as a construction site supervisor. His work from that era is primarily photography and sculpture.
In his mid thirties, Beksiński shifted his focus to painting large, purely abstract pieces on wooden boards (he preferred wood to canvas). Eventually, their form and structure became more straightforward and he entered a self-proclaimed “fantastic period” reminiscent of Bruegel, Ernst or Bosch, and drawing comparisons to his Swiss contemporary, H.R. Giger.
Beksiński’s post-apocalyptic vision, much like Giger’s, is uniquely disturbing owing in part to a highly developed architectural eye. His manipulation of scale and manic overworking of texture is ingenious. Overwhelmingly huge structures rise up from dust or empty desert. Sinewy figures cavort under ominous skies.
But take heart, all ye heathens, Scrooges and secular humanists. There are so many delightful reasons to rejoice in the season besides the miraculous birth of Baby Jesus or being given a luxury SUV wrapped in a giant @#$!*& bow. Explore the wonderment beyond the cut.
George W. Bush’s grandmother, Pauline Pierce, was a remarkable woman known for her “extravagant tastes.” In the 1920s, she adventured in France with writers Frank Harris and Aleister “The Wickedest Man in the World” Crowley; this much, we know, is fact.
During this time period, Crowley was dealing in sex magick – really, when wasn’t he? – and in 1924, possibly with Pauline at his side, he underwent “the Supreme Ordeal,” an important and mysterious rite which, clues from his diary suggest, may have been an orgiastic extravaganza of carnal debauchery. That same year, Pauline returned to the United States. In 1925, she gave birth to Barbara Bush. That’s the short version of the story. Read the long one, complete with diary excerpts from Crowley, here (via Jerem).
I want to believe!
EDIT: Aww, as Mr. Dowson points out in the comments, this was an April Fools’ Hoax! And thus, George W. Crowley-Bush rides unicornback into the Sunset of Too-Good-To-Be-True, where feejee mermaids, Cottingley fairies, and Milli Vanilli wave to him in greeting. Granpaw Crowley is there too; he buys him balloons and together they go to watch The Big Donor Show on the telly. All is well.
I realize the fog machine/polyester armpit vapors of my last post are still fresh in your nostrils. Apologies if the following clip is officially too much of a good thing. Then again, can’t everyone can use one more reason to love this man?
Yep. That’s Richard Pryor fronting a deadly funk/metal band that looks like Sunn O))) on national television in 1977. This is indeed a strange and glorious universe.
Breaking news! I realize this is very last minute and only applies to our brethren in Northern California, but tonight Jesse Hawthorne Ficks is hosting a “Disco Extravaganza” at the gorgeous Castro Theater in SF. They’ll be showing prints of The Wiz, Staying Alive, and best of all, everyone’s favorite futuristic spiritual disco rock opera cult classic,The Apple.
Wait, what’s that you say? You’ve never seen The Apple before?
Mister Boogalow disapproves.
The Apple is a steaming Midas turd of a film baked in massive amounts of tin foil. It’s a glitter-encrusted, mylar-ensconced acid trip. It’s Jem and the Holograms’ flea market jamboree. It’s… it’s…. oh I have no idea what on earth these people were thinking, but the result is utter crackpot genius.
“When I consider what Japanese culture is like, the answer is that it all is subculture. Therefore, art is unnecessary.” – Takashi Murakami
It’s easy to discount Takashi Murakami’s work as pure design – the explosion in his popularity has led him to work with rapper Kanye West and the Luis Vuitton label, both pinnacles of pop-consumer culture in their right. However, even five minutes within the (c)Murakami exhibit at MOCA will put an end any such assumption.
Seeing this art full-scale in all its Technicolor glory, hundreds of manga eyes, dripping fangs and rainbow vomit exploding from fields of flat color made me actually wish I were under the influence of psychedelics, yet grateful I was not. Video projections, massive acrylic sculptures and canvases with deranged cartoon bears ballooning into grotesque monsters, surrounded by grinning daises that look almost exactly like digital prints because of precision with which they’re painted. This is undoubtedly the work of an artist, despite the fact that Takashi Murakami rarely paints these works himself. While he remains in charge of all his art and products, the actual work is done by other artists in his Warhol-style factory.
