BEDTIME FOR ROBOTS: CHLOROFORM DAYS

Michael Ferentino's Bedtime for Robots sails toward a happier, stranger time, with the eight-track opus, Chloroform Days (a special release from The Church of the Noisy Goat). Its audio elements are occasionally grim, but with the retro ability (done in a Tangerine Dream stream) to instill the mind with mollifying fancies of any kind. (The following constitutes my individualized interpretations, based on the tracks' titles and their ensuing sounds.) 

"Corpse of Valerie" begins the epic with a stroke of abandonment. Its pace is careful and shrewd, reminiscent of the attic where (if I may be so bold) Catherine Deneuve has added another among her many corpses. In this respect, the track's creeping notes represent the wavering brainwaves of her undead ensemble, welcoming their fledgling member to their interminable catatonia.

"Epicurean Asshole" is comparably ominous, symbolizing (from my surreptitious vantage) a callous clod devoid of soulful belief. A shuffling cockiness gives this one its kick, airing an arrogance that invokes immorality. It's the perfect theme for the perfect villain. 

"Violent Violet" elects that villain's quarrelsome concubine, in a composition that vocalizes a self-deprecating but rebellious squeal. It's delivered through a male's voice, but in its taunting, la-la refrain (and mind-shifting game), it's female through and through (and of course, most un-ladylike, at that). 

"Community of Delicate Unity" is a totalitarian pledge disguised with peacenik decorations, a track that could be used as a backdrop for Terry Gilliam's Brazil, as it rolls with a monitor-queued assembly line that alas, culminates in blabbering lobotomization.  

For me, "Vicious Turd" strikes an underlying,  Phantom of the Paradise disposition, an electrical dejection that's as therapeutic as it's forbidding. Its organ-pressed build-up, draped by a mask and cloak, reeks of artistic revenge.

"Surrealistic Humanism" bangs like popcorn under a fire. It may bud from flesh and blood, but its underside is a wiring that sings the body electric, albeit to the beat of a discontent, music box.

"Chloroform Days," is the emblazoned, titular selection that spurts disinfectant like a choo choo train fueled by testosterone fished from Prince. It's hard to say how far its seraphic purgation (not to mention its tribal prance) will go; it could be either good or bad, depending on one's mood. (This composition is particularly impetuous, as its vocals seem to seduce and reduce one into an equivocal, comatose state that somehow manages to keep one wide-awake.)

"Disturbed Club of Self-Righteous Flunkies" is where the pompous pieces land. It functions by a stop-and-go progression, pausing only to subside and then go again. However, once it steadies, it keeps a gentle, Zen-like flow, though woven by enough unpaid promises to plug a bottomless pit.  

Chloroform Days, like any Bedtime for Robots experiment, is open to personal (re)design. Nevertheless, its sedatives are potent (and quite open), guaranteeing fresh explorations each and every time. 

Get nice and numb at

https://thechurchofnoisygoat.bandcamp.com/album/chloroform-days

HAPPY FRANKENSTEIN DAY 2024 (HAPPY BIRTHDAY, MARY SHELLEY) 8/30

 

I saw Blink Twice

Blink Twice, directed by Zoe (The Batman) Kravitz, who coscripted with E.T. (High Fidelity) Feigenbaum, references the heinous practices of Harvey Weinstein, Charlie Rose, Matt Lauer, Jeffrey Epstein, et al: cultivated blowhards who've used their clout to lure and abuse women. That the movie rises from these men's sordid legacies is what makes it so distressing. For added chill, it's also one of those effectual, it-could-happen-to-you-type, terror tales. 

Channing (Deadpool & Wolverine) Tatum plays Slater King, a billionaire who's done something off-kilter, though the precise thing is never identified, beyond that he's apologized for it. After a fund-raising gala, King decides to head off to his private island with some guys and several giddy but unsuspecting women.

One of the invitees is Naomie Ackie's Frida. Though Frida enjoys King's festivities, her companion, Alia Shawkat's Jess, inadvertently sees through to pretext, wherein the women are there to be drugged and violated. When Jess disappears, Frida wises up, enough to recall having visited the island before, but is this recollection merely imagined? It's one of those ever-so-incredulous deals that makes one desire a "blink twice" signal to confirm the danger is, in fact, prevalent. 

Well, it is, and a mysterious, flower extract (along with some strange, perfume accompaniment) puts the ladies under, with boa venom (of all unsuspecting things and coupled, no less, by an Adam-and-Eve allusion), being the revealed antidote that snaps their stupors. With increased clarity, Frida and the ladies gain greater cause to move against the enforced norm, as they feign contentment with their enslavement. From there, the furtive fight for freedom mounts toward a fierce and fiery end. 

The characters (and their related scenarios) are far from Shakespearean, but they work well enough for the daunting setup, acting foolish at times but for the most part, believable in their (re)actions. As for Tatum's dashing King, he projects the kind of commanding but affable charisma that makes one understand why women flock to him, despite the blatant warnings. 

In addition to Tatum, Ackie and Shawkat, the casts features Christian Slater, Geena Davis, Haley Joel Osment, Kyle MacLaughlin, Adria Arjona, Simon Rex and Levon Hawke: a nice balance of fresh and seasoned stars. 

In the end, Blink Twice is about taking a stand against a great wrong. Too many people turn a blind eye to egregious deeds, until they, themselves, are affected. This fact allows Blink Twice to resonate within a too-casual climate where way too many cultured creeps get off scot-free by claiming hardship and behavioral instability. On this basis, the movie presents a sound, wake-up call, and despite its overbearing, feminist ending and its penultimate, bigoted, male bashing, it concludes as an interesting and unique thriller. 

PIN-UP TIME: SYBIL DANNING

I saw the Crow Redone

Rupert (Ghost in the Shell/Snow White and the Huntsman) Sanders' adaptation of James O'Barr's The Crow isn't as much a remake as it's a reinterpretation of a familiar mythology. Zach (Creed III) Baylin and William Schneider's script reintroduces us to the poetic, harlequin-faced Eric Draven, portrayed by Bill (It/Nosferatu/Barbarian) Skarsgard. Adhering to the gist of O'Barr's legend, Draven is murdered, along with his secret-bearing fiancé and former, rehab pal, FKA Twig's sexy Shelley Webster, by a demonic gang led by Danny (30 Days of Night/Horizon/Frankenstein 2015) Huston's Vincent Roeg, who's assisted by Laura Birn's obedient Marian.   

Soon after death, Draven receives soulful help from Sami Bouajila's Kronos, a metaphysical guide, in order to rise from his watery grave and then wreck havoc for peace, forming a symbiotic tie with a mystical crow through whom he perceives. The ensuing plot then notches Eric's attacks in a domino effect, tiered by a mid-movie succession of hot-blooded phases that prevails until the last, bloody drop.

The getting-even concept isn't original, whether by O'Barr's standards or Death Wish derivatives in general, but I'm a proponent of revenge, and whether it's served cold or in a stuffy court of law, it's necessary to keep things right with the world. With this acknowledged, the fast-healing Draven doesn't only kill to purge his own demons, but his gal's, and in an allegorical way, he does this for others who might get trampled along the way. (It's an honorable concept: If one doesn't squash a foe, the foe will only hurt another. In a related manner, the movie's slogan, "It's not anger. It's love," makes sense within the saga's context, since if one loves someone, one can't help but get angry enough to do the "eye for an eye" thing.)

Since revenge is the heart of this picture, I'm happy to report that it serves such with a substantial lack of mercy, in particular during the big, opera-house sequence, where Draven goes full-blown, high octane on Roeg's thugs. It's one of those rapacious moments that smacks of a ball-busting, Clockwork Orange ballet. 

Of course, none of it would work as well as it does if Skarsgard wasn't as convincing as he is. (Okay, the short hair is a bit diverting at first, but hey, one gets used to it.) Skarsgard's Draven, as with Brandon Lee's, thrives on a sense of right and wrong, and it shows in every impassioned ripple of his resurrected carcass. (It should be noted, however, that in addition to Webster's loving draw, Draven's tattoo-artist friend, Jordan Bolger's Chance, lends a nice stroke of stability to the mayhem, instilling a convincing, periodic balance between Draven's suffering and salvation.)  

On the hand, villain-maestro Danny Huston is pure hate for the sake of it. It bleeds from the actor, as he displays disgust with unjust superiority. This plays in direct contrast to Skarsgard's prowling determination: a wise, thematic insertion that differentiates the extremes, even while pulling them together. 

On another advantageous point, the movie looks gloriously grim, thanks to Steve Annis' plaintive photography, though not quite in the rain-swept way of the 1994 original, where slippery blacks saturate the screen. In this instance, the brooding mysticism and heated violence are more varied in their Americanized-Prague designation. In truth, if the supernatural elements were excised from Baylin's retelling, the story would still work, only more as a lurid, noir piece, but then I realize there are many who consider the 1994 adaptation (and its tangents) to be just that. Perhaps, it's all a matter of what comes around goes around in the realm of revived, dark crusaders.

Volker (All Quiet on the Western Front) Bertelmann's score is quite good, too, working as a new-wave hymn. It feels like the sort of music that Draven/the Crow would kill by. 

I realize there are a fair number of folks who've already condemned this submission without even seeing it. Test groups and advance audiences who have watched it, have degraded it. So, this now makes me the big-time odd man out, I suppose, but I took the new Crow for what it is: a redesigned blueprint for a tried-and-true, retribution tale. If you feel so inclined to badger me on the point, don't be at all surprised if I tap my own Crow-ish vehemence and seek you out. As I said, I'm a proponent of revenge. 😉

FOR THE FUN OF IT:

 

The Rings of Power: Season 2

I've heard good and bad things about Amazon Prime's multi-tiered The Lord of the Rings: The Rings of Power, from both intense devotees and know-it-alls who (when all is said and done) know nothing. The intersecting voices have asked, was it necessary to launch such a series? Would Tolkien have approved of its prequel content? Is the result a loving homage or superfluous, make-a-buck blasphemy? 

I only know that there have been extensions and revisions to Tarzan of the Apes, Little Women, Moby Dick, Frankenstein, Dracula, Dr. Jekyll and Mr. Hyde, The Godfather, The Planet of the Apes (Monkey Planet), Gone with the Wind, The Lost World, Journey to the Center of the Earth, Flowers in the Attic, The Three Musketeers, War of the Worlds, The Time Machine, The Invisible Man, and let's not forget King Arthur on the whole, so why not The Hobbit and Lord of the Rings? Why not show how the sinister Sauron (Charlie Vickers) came to forge his precious items, beyond his (Spoiler!) Halbrand disguise? Why not toss in some healthy competition among its leads to see where Captain Elrond (Robert Aramayo) lands (if anywhere)? Why not gaze once more upon the purposeful beauty of the Lady Galadriel (Morfydd Clark)? Is not the latter, in itself, enough cause to continue a storyline? 

The main thing is that the Rings of Power saga stays brassy yet honorable in the best, Adar (Joseph Mawle) way. Sure, the setups can get political here and there (and have). They can even stir some levity, but none of it should end up like Harry Potter or Rainbow Brite or Charmed or Oh, Calcutta!. In other words, it shouldn't be mushy and cushy or highbrow to a fault, only to appease those apathetic about J.R.R.'s Middle Earth. 

I believe Season 1 held its own, which means it didn't eclipse Peter Jackson's big-screen adaptations, but there's so much more yet to explore beyond this iceberg's tip. Will Season 2 strike a bigger chunk, and how successful will that chunk be? Hell, I don't know, but as long as it doesn't go down the tap-your-feminine-side, Star Wars trail or get all Captain Marvel bland, it ought do just fine among those who keep an open mind. We'll wait and see, though, and from there, judge better after that Numenor air settles. 

For the near present, the first three episodes of Season 2 will be queued to conquer at 3 am, August 29.