Wages of Fear (1953)

1950s nitroglycerin ravages South American forest in a moment of imperialistic terror on which angry petroholic pleasures rest--Angelenos shout, 'More blood for oil! More blood for oil!"--tracable back to post-Ottoman betrayal, Lawrence of Arabia, nineteenth century penetration of inscrutable Kafirs, The Man Who Would Be King, sixteenth century El Dorado driven madness, Aguirre, the Wrath of God.

Trucklust permits no escape from the misogyny of male bonding--whether mythopoetic Iron Johns, hyperretropuritan Promise Keepers, or late '90s Vegas partiers, Swingers to Very Bad Things. Don't hesitate to kick a pleading woman in the mud for a chance to hand roll French tobacco with your mec in the cab.

What time is it there?

My blog has moved to Life on Film.

Blog has moved

Fotsch on Film has moved to pmfilm.blogspot.com

Lovely and Amazing (2001)

From campus, I can see the fire, bright orange edge zig-zagging down mountain, pink pork belly smoke mud western sky.

Last week I joined the Y and took my first Yoga class. The instructor tells us Yoga can be an emotional experience. It can make you angry, sad, frustrated as body pinches resistance to imaginary self. Fall over if you fall over, let it fall, but always breathe, breathe deep breaths. If you do this, the toxins will be released.

Close-Up (1990)

On the day of atonement, when performing supplication, make it understood to be real. Perhaps the receiver will collect the authenticity of acting. But will the justice of potted flowers wash innocence of guilt, guilt of innocence? Doesn't the burden of forgiveness weigh heavier on the beggar shamed by the tainted joy of belief than the comfortable troubled by the falseness of true praise?

What time is it there? / 你那邊幾點 /Et là-bas, quelle heure est-il?

If I had the time I would write a book on this film.

But let me begin here:

This is a silent comedy. It is Buster Keaton breaking his neck in the water spout sequence of Sherlock Jr. It is Harold Lloyd hanging from the tower clock with right missing thumb and forefinger hidden by glove in Safety Last. It is Chaplin confounded by conveyor belt in Modern Times. And most of all it is the final scene from City Lights: the mockery of shopping for connection in a place of unrelenting pain.