Saving Private Ryan

Saving Private Ryan: Make no mistake, the war scenes are expertly recreated—yet this still must be one of the dullest and most over-rated movies of All-Time.  The problem: a terrible script which offers a bland story (the totality of which is summed up in the film's three word title) and a big ZERO in the way of character development.  So threadbare is the plot, fabled director Steven Spielberg is reduced to showing about fifty close-ups of Tom Hanks' character's trembling hand in order to generate some *drama.*  And Hanks is disastrously miscast as a battle-weary Army captain.  Bob Crane seemed more authentic in Hogan's Heroes.  In fact, Hanks looked so much the fish out of water, during the final battle scene I kept expecting to see Meg Ryan parachute onto the set as a kOOky Army nurse sent to bandage up our wounded hero.  

Matt Damon is even worse as Private Ryan.  In one *memorable* scene which was meant to generate sympathy for his character, Damon laughably attempts *bittersweet nostalgia* as he recounts a bizarre anecdote about how one of his many now-dead brothers had once nearly raped a farm girl and then set fire to the family barn (?!?!).  A tedious and colossal waste of time.

Sunday

Sunday: A fat homeless Jewish man (played by an actor I had never seen before or since) awakes to begin another hopeless Sunday.  He leaves the shelter and begins wandering the wasteland streets of Queens, NY.  A down-on-her-luck limey actress (played by an actress I had never seen before or since) spots the wandering Jew and mistakes him for a famous movie director.  Starved for human contact, the homeless Hebrew pretends to be the movie director.  The former Shakespearean actress feels as homeless in grim Queens as the Jew, and though it is soon apparent the Jew is a faker, the actress continues to willingly believe otherwise, as the charade adds a bit of hope to her crummy life, as well.  Eventually the homeless Jew and the limey lady have the least energetic sexual encounter ever depicted on film.  Interesting character study with one of those annoying ambiguous endings.

Life In The Fat Lane

Life In The Fat Lane, by Cherie Bennett: Lara Ardeche is the perfect sixteen-year-old girl: 5'7", 118 pounds of high school homecoming queen.  Lara is the most popular girl in school and is admired by all—or, at least all that matter.  Then: tragedy!  Lara falls victim to Axell-Crowne Syndrome, a rare disorder that causes the body's metabolism to go haywire, resulting in rapid weight gain—no matter how little food a person eats.

Queen Lara is soon a 218 pound cow, shunned by her thin former friends, and now forced to associate with those she used to feel superior to: fatties, the handicapped and all other assorted geekoids.  

This is a strange novel (written for teens), with no apparent teen *target audience,* as one can't imagine a genuine fat person (fact not because of an extraordinarily rare disease, but because of Cheetos and Cherry Coke) finding comfort in this story because Lara never does lose her repulsion to obesity (among Lara's closing words: I'm not telling you everything was fine or that I didn't long to be thin, because I did. p.259).

In the end, the best Lara can manage is tolerance, and the grudging acceptance of the fat person's humanity. It's as if the author wants the reader to sympathize with fat people, but not too much!

On the other hand, thin attractive people are painted with the fat person's stereotypical brush: as shallow, vain and mercilessly cruel to all fatties and nerds.  There is also a bizarre subplot involving Lara's parents that must be read to be believed. . .hints of incestuous thoughts on the part of Lara's father while she is still thin, her mother's jealous reaction and then her gloating attitude as her daughter blimps out and loses her father's unnatural affection.  A strange curiosity from the shelves of late 20th century YA Literature.

Karla

Karla: Hard to believe a movie about the sin-sational Karla Homolka could be so bad. Karla was a seventeen-year-old Canadian cutie when she met twenty-three year old pretty boy Paul Bernardo, a young man of no talent--uh, that is, except for serial rape. Anyway, for some reason, Karla fell hard for Bernardo. Well, even the briefest consideration of Karla’s and Paul’s life together, in which they became Canada’s most famous rapists/murderers (at least, until pig farmer Robert Picton was pulled from British Columbia’s mud in 2002), will lead one to conclude a shared passion for sexual sadism was the reason Karla *fell in love* with Paul. But in this artless little flick, Karla is a psychological zero. Video game characters are more 3-dimensional. The only thing seeming genuine about her character is her appetite for sex. . .other than that, her participation in the rapes and murders of her little sister Tammy and two high school girls, the vicious beatings she endured from Bernardo (all mirroring the *real life facts* of the case) have the appearance of random events she just happened to chance upon, and then stayed to watch/endure/participate in out of a very morbid S&M curiosity.

The script doesn’t even suggest Karla went along with the kidnappings, tortures, rapes and murders because of the beatings Bernardo gave her (which the very few who supported her in her legal proceedings suggested). Indeed, in one scene a kidnapped schoolgirl, who has just watched Bernardo give Karla yet another pummeling, asks: “Why do you stay?” After the prerequisite *dramatic pause,* Karla sadly, wearily responds: “You don’t understand. . .” That’s for sure!

At best, the movie sort of implies Karla participated in the schoolgirl rapes and murders because she really liked Paul, and since raping schoolgirls was what Paul was really into, well, she had to go along, because that’s what wives do--they support their husbands. Karla rapes and murders the way some wives watch football with their hubbies--they have no interest in the game, but they sit there politely on the sofa and say *that’s nice* when the home team scores a touchdown.

While not overly graphic, the movie is genuinely lurid, so it may provide cheap thrills to those who enjoy watching half-dressed high school girls beg and cry, etc., etc.

It must also be noted the actress playing Karla (somebody named Laura Prepon) is terrible. Apparently this Prepon person was a television sitcom *star*--which might explain why she exhibits the limited range of an amateur thespian used to playing to a laugh track.

Once Upon A Time

Almost 16 years ago, I visited this place.  I started writing a blog entry about it, but never finished it.  It has sat as a draft for over 15 years.  I might as well post it.  I don't know if the links still work.  It will be obvious where I stopped work on it.

On a cave tour of southern Ohio, we stopped off at the Zane Shawnee Caverns, an odd little place owned by a group calling itself the *United Remnant Band of the Shawnee Nation.* They have set up their pseudo-reservation on about 300 acres, and they have 45 people of varying degrees of Shawnee blood living there. As you enter there's a sign that reads *Welcome to Indian Country.* They might just as well have put up a *Welcome to the Country of the People Who Got Fucked Over by Both the White and Red Man* sign, for it appears from the tangled account outlined in their badly written little history *book* (an unstapled digest sized 16 pager that sells for $3 in the gift shop and which is summarized online here) that neither group wants them. The land was thick with the stink of the cast-off.

Even in caverns these misfits got the short end of the stick. Only 10, 12 miles away is the storied Ohio Caverns—bigger, richer in crystals and far more lucrative. The parking lot at the Ohio Caverns was packed with cars and tour buses. At Shawnee, only a solitary rusty pick-up was sitting in the small gravel lot.

Ha, looking at that old Chevy truck while getting out of our ’97 Honda Civic, I felt like a 1%er. There were a couple old chiefs playing a board game on the covered porch to the entrance. They didn't answer our hellos as we went past. Inside, a fat old squaw was tending the gift shop. She told us we were the first visitors of the day—it was 4 pm, and they closed at 5. The squaw had to make a phone call to get an injun to come down and give us a tour. While we waited, we browsed the gift shop, a dusty mix of dream catchers, deerskin pouches and assorted bric-a-brac like this:
And this:
And in a forlornly failed attempt to add *tourist value,* the natives had patched together a little *nature annex*—a sad menagerie of stuffed owls, shabby pelts, a tank housing a decrepit turtle with a cricket hopping crazily around it, two small *aquariums* with blue gill barely visible through dirty water, and this angry turkey:
Maybe this bizarre collection had some meaning according to Shawnee lore, but to me it just seemed sad and peculiar.

While shuffling around from one oddity to the next, I tried to comprehend the weird faux reservation vibe. It seemed to be made of equal parts shame and pride—schizoid.

The mood brightened considerably when our guide finally showed up, a little injun named Black Land. He gave a tour like he had a group filled with Geronimo, Tecumseh, Cochise and twenty other red heroes, instead of four nobody mud people.

Black Land told us the all usual scientific mumbo-jumbo about how the cave and the cave pearls and the stalactites and all that were formed, but he also spun a lot of Shawnee tall tales to keep the kids entertained. Then, when we came to the middle of the cave, where the distance between the walls narrowed to almost nothing, and I asked him if any fat people ever got stuck, Black Land told a tragicomic story about a fat white woman who couldn’t squeeze through the narrow passageway and got left behind her tour group. Black Land said even though it took less than a minute for everyone to realize what had happened, the fat woman became hysterical and started screaming and lumbering back toward the entrance. In the process, as she was flailing her *buffalo butt-sized* arms, she knocked loose a couple of thousands of years old soda straws. “I’m sorry for the fat white lady,” my youngest said. Black Land nodded. “There’s fat in every race,” I said. Black Land nodded.

After the tour, I wandered around outside, careful not to disturb the two old chiefs, who were s

With Fear And Trembling

A Christian who:

Served in the IDF and. . .

. . .dedicated his life to Israel and Zionism.

This fellow, who took part in Israel's war against Gaza in 2014, and wholeheartedly supported Israel's current crimes against the Palestinians, and worked for the Israeli embassy in Washington, DC, was murdered Wednesday night by a supporter of Palestine.

All murder is sin.  It cannot be excused.  Whether on a street in DC or in the rubble of Gaza.

The murder of this fellow and the murder of 50000 Palestinians cannot be excused. 

If we say this fellow had a better chance to live than the Palestinians in Gaza, it will appear to lessen the sin of his murder.  But this is not the intent.  

It's simply a fact of this fellow's bizarre life that he had better circumstances.  It is unfathomable to me why a self-proclaimed Christian, with so many opportunities open to him, would he choose to dedicate his life to zionism. 

  

Looking at the bizarre life of Yaron Lischinsky, we remember the words of Jude:

Beloved, when I gave all diligence to write unto you of the common salvation, it was needful for me to write unto you, and exhort you that ye should earnestly contend for the faith which was once delivered unto the saints.

How does a Christian join the IDF and, at the very least, support the killing of Palestinians, some of whom are Christian?  How does a Christian dedicate his life to zionism?

The New York Times says this of his upbringing:

He grew up in a culturally mixed family with a Jewish father and a Christian mother, and was a practicing Christian, according to Ronen Shoval, the dean of the Argaman Institute for Advanced Studies in Jerusalem, where Mr. Lischinsky participated in a yearlong program in classical liberal conservative thought after earning a master’s degree in government and diplomacy. “He was a devout Christian,” Dr. Shoval said, “but he had tied his fate to the people of Israel.” In his application to join the program, which Dr. Shoval shared with The New York Times, Mr. Lischinsky described his upbringing in a multicultural family and “the inner struggles” he faced while growing up in a religious household within secular societies in Germany and Israel.

Was he trying to serve two masters?  Was he as confused about his faith as Ellen Page was her gender?  

The Lord Jesus Christ knows this fellow, whether he was one of His sheep or not.  I don't know how he can be.  The causes he dedicated his life to are in total opposition to the gospel of Jesus.  

Well, it can be said most of us waste our lives.  True.  And while we may not support murder, we do participate in, in one fashion or another, activities that are contrary to the gospel.  But we would recognize that as sin, and understand it as something unworthy of Christ.  We would know we need God to grant us repentance.

A fornicator's life is not dedicated to fornication, it is ruined by fornication.

A zionist's life is dedicated to zionism, it is ruined by zionism.

Is the last state of either person worse than the other? 

For the Father judgeth no man, but hath committed all judgment unto the Son.

These are strange days here on the earth, irrationality and hatred abound.  Our consolation is that when all is said and done, His judgment is true.  Until then, work out your own salvation with fear and trembling.

[Please note this *terror* attack came just as I foretold in our May 11 entry titled David Versus Trump]

What Of These People?

It's very easy to express support for the pitiful Palestinian people.  Their lives are a not endless misery, because many of them are, indeed, ended.  We can sympathize with them, pray for them, perhaps donate relief money, it is easy to speak of the Palestinians.

But what can one say about Israelis?  We know the Israelis overwhelmingly support their government's crimes against creation.  These people, such as the one in the tweet above, shamelessly promote genocide.  What are we to think of such deranged, violent people?  

Is it as simple as the old Christian bromide: Hate the sin, love the sinner?

The Israelis are an ugly, mean-spirited, sadistic, arrogant, racist people.  They revel and delight in the suffering of the Palestinians.  They are beyond human feeling, their consciences have been seared with a hot iron.

Speaking only for myself, if I am being honest, I must say I know them.  I was them.  I am them.  I will be them.  I can look back at my life and see moments when I felt other particular individuals were not human, were not the same as me.  Without getting into needless specifics, I can simply say, at times, people I was forced to associate with became vessels upon whom I poured out my wrath.  If I felt especially wronged or inconvenienced (upon later reflection I would realize I had exaggerated my injury), it created an anger which needed a human target, whether or not they had anything to do with my perceived persecution.  I had complete disregard for these people’s feelings.  They were, indeed, targets.  Human silhouettes.

Under the wrong circumstances, most people are capable of murder.  All people are capable of unfeeling.  Most times it is simply the grind of our own life that leaves us unconcerned with the plight of the other.    

The Israelis, for over eighty years of reasons, collectively feel similarly, and have been, for at least seventy-seven years, pouring out their wrath upon Palestinians.  At times they have been capable of reflection, and debated a new course of action.  But the internal debate has now long since ended, and only the annihilation of the Palestinians seems reasonable to them.  They cannot view themselves as the rational, feeling world outside of the Anglo Axis of Evil see them.  They are genuinely surprised and offended when it is suggested they are acting criminally.  

It’s not that difficult for the individual to free himself from such misguided action. A word from the wise, a rebuke, resistance, time, a decent meal or movie, can snap one back into a sense of shared humanity.

But for the Israelis, their collective hatred is reinforced in their tribe, there is no one to rebuke them, the only rebuke comes from those outside the tribe, from those whom they despise.  The only possibility of the Israelis recognizing the humanity of the Palestinians is through supernatural revelation.

Currently we can view the Israelis as the enemies of all mankind, and as our Lord instructed, they should be prayed for. Barring supernatural revelation, the Israelis will continue to torture and murder the Palestinians until they are annihilated.  Will their psychopathy then end?  Or will they discover yet another insult to their collective body (even in the midst of their crimes against creation in Palestine they also kill in Lebanon and Syria)?  Perhaps Iran has offended them?

But I say unto you, Love your enemies, bless them that curse you, do good to them that hate you, and pray for them which despitefully use you, and persecute you.

This is all we can do for Israel (or all that can be done for us).  There is no guarantee of a different result.  But at least in this instance we will have followed the Lord's command, and in doing so, we confess ourselves, as probably the only souls who can honestly pray for the Israelis are those who recognize themselves in Israel.