I Miss The '60s

You know, when you look around at all the craziness in America, the tranxiety, the border neuroses, the imbeciles running the government and escalating the decline in the quality of life, the pockets of zombie homeless, the poor mental and physical health of the sheeple, the poverty, the absurd grabs for Greenland and Canada, and you combine that with the darkness from Palestine, Ukraine, the threat of war in Iran, this may be the most miserable state of the world I have seen in in my lifetime, certainly the worst in the last 50 - 55 years.

I was 7 years old in 1967, and I remember that time and the years until the mid-'70s as being pretty wild. The Vietnam war, the war protests, the race riots, the assassinations, Manson, the lunar landing—probably more chaos, death, spectacle and upheaval than right now. . . but the sheeple back then were mentally and physically healthier, they were far better able to accurately process what was going on around them than today's sheeple.  And I saw that in spite of all constant churn, the sheeple back then were far more hopeful, and much less depressed than the sheeple today.  The youth believed a better Age was dawning.  Look at those three groovy chicks in the photo above, look how happy, look at the smiles!  Nobody smiles today.  Now people are afraid of their own shadow, and of who’s pissing next to them in the shitter.

Even though in the late '60s and early '70s the American people were divided over the war and race issues, they maintained a higher degree of civility on the individual level. People didn't rage and brawl in fast food restaurants and on airplanes, they didn't shoot each other at work and at school.  People didn't call the police over every personal offense. Today there is open hatred of those who hold contrary opinion.  Much of this can be attributed to the dehumanizing effects of the electronic age.  The other is not a flesh-and blood-human, but a clashing electronic viewpoint in our timeline.  As people become more and more isolated in the electronic age, interpersonal relationship skills vanish.  People don't know how to talk to other people, let alone how to get another person naked for sexual activity.  Young people today have higher celibacy rates than medieval clerics.

It's the unpleasantness of other people, their meanness and pettiness, their appetite for violence, that makes our current day seem so much darker and hopeless than the crazy late '60s and early '70s.  

Other people are so disgusting, why even bother to hope for better days?  Who even wants to live with these people?    

No Answer

The soul that believes there is a Higher Power (from whatever religious or scientific faith) cannot answer the infidel's question: why does God allow evil to happen?

The believer will try to answer.  In fact, the believer often truly believes he has the answer.  But his answer is just one of man's homilies, usually one of the following three:

1. God allows evil to display the need for and glory of His redemptive work, His mercy, grace, patience, etc.

2. Free will.  God allows people to make their own choices, and most of them are bad, leading to the degenerate state of the world.

3. God allows evil because, although we cannot see how from the midst of it, it is part of a greater plan that works for a greater good.

None of these answers, or any of the lesser known answers, would satisfy the child, or the family of the child pictured above.  Currently we are witnessing the Israelis inflicting incredible cruelty upon the Palestinians. This is not a historical anomaly.  The Jews themselves suffered incredible horror during WW II, and, in fact, human history is littered with such suffering, both on the collective and the individual level.  

Even those who seem strong in their belief in a Higher Power can abandon that faith when tragedy afflicts them.  

Only one answer is somewhat satisfying to the human mind, the mind that assumes fairness and justice are obligations of existence.  Only the hope of Universal Salvation can ease the sting (and it doesn't completely ease the sting) of evil.  The belief every human being, at *the end of time* will be resurrected to eternal glory, an eternity free of tears and pain, which then offers at least a joyous future as compensation for the present misery. But Universal Salvation is a tiny minority belief in the religious and scientific faiths, and is rarely discussed or debated.

If there is no Higher Power, no responsible Creator, then the world's pain and suffering is simply a byproduct of the accident of life.  Life mutated into horror.

But for the person of religious or scientific faith in a Higher Power, is there really nothing better to be offered as a consolation for the suffering?  Is there really nothing more we can say than trust God's plan, His ways are not our ways, and in the end glory awaits (at least, glory awaits for some)? 

Is there anything else we can offer the injured, dying child, and his family?

No.

Hindus believe in karma, but that gives little solace in the here and now of misery, and besides, if we honestly assess human history, we see an overwhelming unbalance in the favor of bad karma.

The infidel shouldn't be troubled or surprised by the agony of life.  The unbeliever is convinced life is the result of a random act of violence so terrifyingly powerful it continues without end, and all the accidental life forms that it tore from the void suffer and die for whatever life form exists in the present, and they too will suffer and die and be the genesis of the universe's next miserable creatures.

Personally, I find solace in the life of Christ.  Jesus was despised and rejected, a man of sorrows, acquainted with grief, so much so He seemed stricken and smitten of God, He was tortured and murdered.  

So when I look at the broken body of the Palestinian child, the victim of Israel, I hear the words of Jesus:

The servant is not greater than his Lord. If they have persecuted Me, they will also persecute you.

I can only pray all the miserable people of the world are called to serve the Lord.

The Fugitive

Over 60 years old now, The Fugitive remains one of my all-tme favorite television shows. It starred David Janssen as Dr. Richard Kimble, a physician wrongly convicted of murdering his wife and sentenced to death. Kimble escaped from prison and went on the run, often frequently helping the people he was hiding amongst, all the while determined to find the real killer, a sinister one-armed man. Along the way, he was pursued by Lieutenant Gerard (played by Barry Morse), a dogged, humorless detective who was obsessed with returning Kimble to death row.

The plot was loosely borrowed from Victor Hugo’s classic 19th century French novel Les Misérables, with the Kimble character being the counterpart of Hugo’s fugitive Jean Valjean, and Lieutenant Gerard based on Hugo’s Frech police inspector Javert.

The Fugitive was both a critical and commercial success, winning four Primetime Emmy Awards and becoming one of the most popular television shows of the 1960s. It was a groundbreaking show that helped to shape the television landscape. It was one of the first shows to deal with serious issues in a realistic way, and it helped to raise awareness of important social issues, such as race relations, domestic violence, poverty, addiction, mental health, even the plight of migrant workers.

What made The Fugitive so great, though, was the lead actor David Janssen. Yes the scripts were generally above average, and they dealt with some interesting issues, but it was David Janssen‘s portrayal of Dr. Ruchard Kimble that really drew the viewer in. Jansen gave a fantastic performance as the fugitive. He brought a great deal of depth and nuance to the role, and he made Kimble a sympathetic and relatable character. Here was a character who lived the fine life, a rich, successful doctor who had come to take the blessings in his life, including his wife, for granted. But In a twist of fate worthy of Greek tragedy he is brought low, and must experience life again at its most humble, running from town to town, living in constant fear of being discovered, working menial jobs, associating with classes of people he had long since been isolated from. And, as his greatest curse, he becomes a man who must live completely alone in the world.

There have been a lot of books and movies about the last man on earth, some poor schmuck who is the only survivor of some kind of apocalyptic event and is left to wander a desolate landscape all by himself. Well that’s essentially the fate of David Janssen‘s character. He has to live as if he’s the last man on earth, even though he’s surrounded by the living. He can’t afford to let anyone know he is there. He can’t tell anybody who he is or what he’s up to for fear of being betrayed and/or captured. It’s a fantastic performance, Janssen is able to express the frustration, the stress, the tension of always having to look over his shoulder, always having to be careful of what he says. He gives a very subdued, subtle performance, he shrugs, sticks his hands in his pockets, hems and haws as he gives vague answers to questions, always glancing for the nearest exit.

Listen, anybody who has ever worked at a job knows that sooner or later at least one person, some workplace busybody is gonna try to butt into your life and figure out who you are. As the fugitive flees from town to town, he takes on countless odd jobs and temporary work, and invariably runs up against some workplace leech. It’s very tiring having to live while always hiding who you really are. David Jansen‘s character expresses that kind of fatigue very well, the fatigue of living contrary to your nature. Janssen’s Richard Kimble is the great world-weary representative of every one of us who has ever, for however brief or long, tried to live a secret life.

The Fugitive, a great, great show. You know over the years they’ve done different versions of the show, even a Harrison Ford movie, but what they’ve never tried and what would be much more interesting than trying to remake something that was already done almost perfectly, is if they did a movie which showed the fugitive trying to go back to living as Richard Kimble. How difficult would it be to try to go back and live your true life, after having lived a different life for so long? Perhaps you would have discovered that what you had thought your true life was wasn’t really true at all. . . maybe there were lies in that life, also? Would you pick them up again? Is everybody, at their core, a fugitive from their true self?

All I Need Is Love

All I Need Is Love, by Klaus Kinski. The most outrageous, manic, rude, and wildly entertaining autobiography I have ever read.  This thing is so nuts, it’s not even published anymore. You can only get used copies, at a very, very high price, from online booksellers. I got a copy from the library years ago and smartly xeroxed a copy for myself, as the library here has since taken the book out of circulation.

Published in 1986, it is a candid and outrageously lurid account of the German actor's life, from his childhood in Nazi Germany to his rise to fame in world cinema, culminating in his five epic collaborations with director Werner Herzog. 

Half frothing, bitter rant and half brutally honest confession, there's not a single dull page.  Kinski begins by recounting his Dickensian childhood in war-torn Germany, suffering from extreme poverty and a cold, abusive mother and a weak, pathetic father.

But it's Kinski's portrayal of his relationships with women that has earned this book's reputation for obscenity and its banishment.  All I Need Is Love would probably cause #MeToo girls to faint. He writes about his many affairs and marriages in graphic, insulting detail. Kinski would fornicate with whatever woman was handy, regardless of appearance, hygiene, age, weight, race, etc.  While there are occasional recollections of affection, Kinski's chief concern with women was biological, he had an insatiable need for the female's holes.   

Kinski also frankly discusses his drug use. He admits to using a variety of drugs, including cocaine, heroin, and LSD. He also writes about his experiences with mental illness, including depression and schizophrenia.

Also memorable is Kinski's unflattering assessment of the film industry, and, of course, his most famous director, Werner Herzog. There are numerous epic rants deriding the stupidity and artlessness of Herzog. Herzog dismisses much of Kinski's criticism of him as pure fabrication meant only to create a sensational best-seller.  Herzog's protests have led to much critical scrutiny of All I Need Is Love. Most critics side with Herzog, and accuse Kinski of exaggerating or fabricating many of the events of his life detailed in the book.

I choose to take Kinski at his word, but does it really matter whether or not All I Need Is Love is an honest account of Kinski's life? I am reminded of Antonin Artaud’s answer when some dull literary critic dared to ask him if his biography of Heliogabalus was *true.* Artaud answered “what does it matter? I have created something beautiful.” And that’s what we can say about Klaus KInski’s All I Need Is Love.

The Devils

The Devils: 54 years after its release, it's still one of the most controversial, extreme and bizarre films ever made. . .and would serve today as a worthy meditation on MAGA irrationality. 

Ken Russell’s shrieking, unhinged historical drama, based on Aldous Huxley's The Devils of Loudun, is a wild mix of torture horror, sexual perversion, and religious and political malfeasance. Set in 17th-century France, it's a nightmarish telling of the true story of Urbain Grandier, a priest accused of witchcraft by a group of nuns in the town of Loudun. With its unforgettable visual style, untethered depictions of religious hypocrisy, political corruption, and ax-blunt commentary on power and repression, The Devils challenges its audience in ways few films ever have.  

Oliver Reed, an under-rated, nearly forgotten limey actor, not as great as Richard Burton, but certainly better than or equal to Olivier, Caine, Finney, O'Toole, et al. delivers a masterpiece preening performance as the vain, arrogant, horny Father Grandier, a charismatic priest who tries to save his city's independence from the growing central authority of France's King Louis XIII, who appears just as stupid, bored, cruel, and a little bit more trans than our Donald Trump.  Louis, who is more devoted to *sport* (a decidedly peculiar form of hunting) than actually ruling (think Trump and golf), leaves the details of the land grab (think Trump and Greenland) to Cardinal Richelieu.

Reed's Grandier is a deeply flawed yet principled man who, despite his love of female flesh (every woman, including the nuns, in Loudun swoon over him), genuinely cares for his parishioners and fights against the destruction of his city’s autonomy.

Vanessa Redgrave plays Sister Jeanne, a hunchbacked nun who harbors an obsessive and unfulfilled carnal fixation on Grandier. When her repressed desires break out into a full-blown sexual hysteria, she accuses Grandier of witchcraft, setting off a chain of events that leads to his persecution and execution.

[I can't help but think Paula White would suffer from the same mania as Sister Jeanne, had not Trump allowed her to perform fellatio upon him.  And we can also imagine Trump has the same amused opinion of his evangelical followers' beliefs as Louis XIII had of the beliefs of his Church partners].

Ken Russell’s Grand Guignol direction (no idea is too far-fetched to indulge), combined with the still-mesmerizing über-Baroque and brutalist set designs of Derek Jarman, create an unsettling atmosphere that underscores the film’s themes of oppression and moral decay. The film’s surreal imagery, chaotic violent crowd scenes, and grotesque depictions of religious fervor, heightens the sense of hysteria and corruption within Loudun. 

Of course, the legendary scenes of mass sexual hysteria among the nuns, culminating in the possessed sisters engaging in frenzied orgiastic rituals, have cemented The Devils as one of the most shocking films in cinema history, even with its most depraved scenes left on the cutting room floor. 

But beyond all its provocative imagery, its hellish mix of lust, perversion and torture, The Devils, at its heart, is a searing critique of institutional power that resonates across the decades to our MAGA Age. It exposes the ways in which political and religious authorities manipulate public perception for their own ends. Richelieu and his enforcer, Father Barre, use the accusations against Grandier to justify the destruction of Loudun’s fortifications, consolidating their control over France, just as in our MAGA Age Trump and evangelical heretics use accusations against colored immigrants to justify their border walls, or accusations against the colored poor to justify land/material exploitation around the globe.

Most of today's somnolent audience will have little understanding of The Devils political allegory, but The Devils will certainly still shock-and-awe even the most hardened purveyor of perversion with its depictions of sexual hysteria and torture.  

The Devils faced extensive censorship upon release. Even today, a fully uncut version is not available. Despite this, The Devils remains one of cinema's most arresting, disturbing and provocative works, and a timeless reminder of the destructive power of weaponized religion.

Marthe: The Story Of A Whore

Marthe: The Story of a Whore, by Joris-Karl Huysmans.  Huysmans’ first novel is also one of the first to attempt a realistic or *naturalistic* examination of prostitution. A struggling young writer and his cabaret dancer/prostitute girlfriend try to survive the grinding poverty and overflowing vice of Paris lower class life.  Loosely based on Huysmans' own misadventures in the gutters of Paris, this novella is limited by its artificial dialogue and character psychology, and somewhat clumsy plotting, this uneven story of a whore doesn’t quite measure up to Huysmans’ later work. Indeed, one contemporary critic rightly asked ‘what good does it do us to witness the blossoming of this venereal flower?’ BUT. . .Huysmans’ unmatched descriptive powers are already on display. No novelist ever saw the grimy truth of reality better, or could translate it so vividly. He wrote descriptions like Van Gogh painted the Night Cafe. Here is his rendering of the whore’s slum:

A rusty door streaked blood-red and ochre yellow, a long dark corridor the walls of which oozed black drops like coffee, and a sinister staircase that creaked at every footstep and was impregnated with the foul stench of drains and the smell of the lavatories whose doors swung open in the slightest breeze.

Also present is Huysmans’ remarkably blunt and still 149 years after its publication avant-garde assessment of the essential hopelessness of cohabitation:

He also had to put up with the smell of her cooking, the heavy odour of wine in the sauces, sickening stench of onions fried in a pan, and look at bread crumbs all over the rugs and bits of cotton thread all over the furniture; the sitting room had been overturned from top to bottom. On cleaning days it was even worse. The ironing board had to be balanced across his desk and another table, and the washing had to be dried on a clothes-horse in the hall. The puddles of water on the parquet, the stale smell of lye, and the streaming laundry that left damp-stains on his brasswork and tarnished his mirrors, reduced him to despair.

Page after page of both of the lovers’ resentments, which, stewing in poverty, turn the wine of love sour. As an indictment of carnality, Marthe makes Huysmans later turn to catholicism/spiritualism seem inevitable. Despite its flawed presentation of the anatomy of a prostitute, of which there is no need to detail, the book predicts Huysmans’ eclipse of other *naturalists* because his chief concern is the individual, and not the collective. He understood ruin is personal, not political:

The daylight which filtered its gold-dust through the curtains showed him a face bruised by the depredations of the night, and a posture that revealed a whore who had been dragged through every gutter in the city.

Nudity

In the west, nudity is equated with freedom. Particularly for females. Females are *free* to dress in almost nothing. Clothing, as we learn in the history of Adam and Eve, originated as the result of sin. Therefore, to rebel against clothing is to proclaim oneself free from the law of sin and death. The nudist [undoubtedly stupidly, or, more politely, unconsciously] is thus telling God to go to Hell.