Directer: Wes Anderson Starring: Bill Murray, Owen Wilson, Cate Blanchett, Angelica Huston With: William Dafoe, Jeff Goldblum, Michael Gambon
I was inspired by a friend to start watching Wes Anderson films. I first saw The Fantastic Mr. Fox. Then The Royal Tenenbaums, then The Darjeeling Limited. My friend’s favorite is The Royal Tenenbaums. Until now, I didn’t have one, although I had loved all I had seen thus far. I can now answer the question “What’s your favorite Wes Anderson film?” (because I get asked this question quite frequently). I loved The Life Aquatic With Steve Zissou.
It was witty, charming, hilarious, moving, inspiring. Lovely. Wes Anderson is truly an artist. The stories and characters and ideas he creates leave me awe-struck. What a brilliant writer and film-maker. But who can ignore the brilliant actors and actresses he employs? The starring actors and actresses are able to play such complex characters with such an expertise like I have never seen. And who can forget the brilliance of the music involved? Seu Jorge, or Pelé in the film, performs his own covers of David Bowie’s songs throughout the film, using an acoustic guitar and the Portuguese language.
“Rest is not idleness, and to lie sometimes on the grass under the trees on a summer’s day, listening to the murmur of water, or watching the clouds float across the sky, is by no means a waste of time.”—John Lubbock
I recently watched Kill Bill: Vol. 1 in my efforts to watch the movies that are continually added to my “list.”
Director: Quentin Tarantino Starring: Uma Thurman, Lucy Liu With: Vivica A. Fox, Daryl Hannah, David Carradine
Once in AP English Literature and Composition we answered this prompt in a practice Free Response Question: “In great literature, no scene of violence exists for its own sake. Choose a work of literary merit that confronts the reader or audience with a scene or scenes of violence. In a well-organized essay, explain how the scene or scenes contribute to the meaning of the complete work. Avoid plot summary.”
The scenes in Kill Bill (not a literary work)? Violence for the sake of violence. But don’t get me wrong, I loved this movie. While it was so unrealistic (the characters defy gravity in intense samarai sequences, survive gun shot wounds to the head, have their horrific background story told with Japanese animation, or are 17 years old, female, and killing machines), it remained so…real (disgustingly bloody but realistic violence). And I commend Tarantino for “keeping it real,” in a way.
Overall, the film is beautifully made, and revenge is depicted as particularly sweet.
I will be finishing the saga this weekend, hopefully, with Kill Bill: Vol. 2.
Directed by Jonathan Dayton and Valerie Faris, starring Abigail Breslin, Greg Kinnear, Paul Dano, Alan Arkin, Toni Collette, and Steve Carrell. I think I loved everything about this movie. The story, the actors, the music, the message. I couldn’t get enough of it. I didn’t want it to end.
"You know what? Fuck beauty contests. Life is one fucking beauty contest after another. You know, school, then college, then work, fuck that. And fuck the air force academy. If I wanna fly, I’ll find a way to fly.You do what you love, and fuck the rest.”
I’ve begun a list of movies that I feel required to view. It’s getting rather lengthy.
Yesterday I watched The Imaginarium of Dr. Parnassus, directed by Terry Gillium, starring Heath Ledger, Christopher Plummer, and Lily Cole. This film is known as Heath Ledger’s last, but did not receive as much acclaim as I think it deserved. I would recommend this film to those who appreciate the wonders of the imagination; this is not a movie for the pure logician, considering Dr. Parnassus’s ability to make one’s wildest imaginations seem real. Overall, a great film with fantastic acting, telling a wonderfully original story from the mind of Terry Gillium.
“I hate the way you talk to me, and the way you cut your hair. I hate the way you drive my car, I hate it when you stare. I hate your big, dumb, combat boots, and the way you read my mind. I hate you so much it makes me sick, it even makes me rhyme. I hate the way you’re always right, I hate it when you lie. I hate it when you make me laugh, even more so when you make me cry. I hate it when you’re not around, and the fact that you didn’t call. But mostly, I hate the way that I don’t hate you, not even close, not even a little bit, not even at all.”—10 Things I Hate About You (via kissesascollateral) (via howtonotthink) (via my-thoughts-and-things)
Today marked the last day of my high school career. I didn’t cry tears of joy or sadness, nor did I long for just one more day. Yes, fond memories were made in the past four years of my life, but the fact remains that I still refer to my school as a ‘God-forsaken hellhole.’ “Why?” you ask. “You made friendships, learned new things, were given multitudes of opportunities, and still resent your high school experience?” The answer is yes.
There are many things I would go back and change if I could: being in a certain program, taking a certain class, dating a certain person, losing a certain friend. If I could go back, things would be different. I would be different. I can never know if that different me would be a better me, and so my desire to “go back” will never hinder my ability to move forward. However, I will only rarely look on high school with affection. This year was filled mostly with frustration, pain, heartbreak, stress, fear, and longing, with only brief moments of joy, laughter, and excitement.
I will try to focus on the positives. I will try to focus on what made high school bearable, doable. I will try to think on how well my school prepared me for college. I do not believe any other school could have done so with the same finesse. But the negatives cannot be erased from my mind. The regrets outnumber the triumphs, and the copious tears of pain negate the seldom tears of joy. I only pray that I can take those moments of bliss and someday see my high school career in a new light.
A Moment of Bliss - Where I spent much of my high school career: on stage.
“Февраль. Достать чернил и плакать! Писать о феврале навзрыд, Пока грохочущая слякоть Весною черною горит. Достать пролетку. За шесть гривен, Чрез благовест, чрез клик колес, Перенестись туда, где ливень Еще шумней чернил и слез. Где, как обугленные груши, С деревьев тысячи грачей Сорвутся в лужи и обрушат Сухую грусть на дно очей. Под ней проталины чернеют, И ветер криками изрыт, И чем случайней, тем вернее Слагаются стихи навзрыд.”—
Black spring! Pick up your pen, and weeping, Of February, in sobs and ink, Write poems, while the slush in thunder Is burning in the black of spring.
Through clanking wheels, through church bells ringing A hired cab will take you where The town has ended, where the showers Are louder still than ink and tears.
Where rooks, like charred pears, from the branches In thousands break away, and sweep Into the melting snow, instilling Dry sadness into eyes that weep.
Beneath - the earth is black in puddles, The wind with croaking screeches throbs, And-the more randomly, the surer Poems are forming out of sobs.
It was not necessary for you to sing in B.o.B’s new song, Airplanes. He is not worthy of your beastly voice. You needn’t be “feat.”ered in any rapper’s music (if one can call it such a thing). Was it for recognition? For money? Or for fun? Do you have a strange but unwarranted respect for these people? Whatever the reason, I wish you hadn’t participated in the creation of this song. Although your voice remains beastly and causes the song’s enjoyability to increase ten fold, the fact persists that you sold out. And I am saddened. Paramore needs you. Your fans need you. I need you. Not B.o.B.
Why is it that song lyrics always explain my emotions better than I can? Why is it that I cannot come up with the words to express what I feel? Why must I rely on the brilliance of others in order to say what I cannot?