9/24/2023 0 Comments Netflix touchez pas au grisbiThis is one of the classic ‘one last job’ heist movies, with a great soundtrack, and Gabin here gives perhaps the suavest film performance ever. Jean Gabin as brooding, blasé gangster trying to keep the Parisian underworld’s hands off the tiular grisbi (‘loot,’ ‘booty,’ apparently, even though I’ve yet to meet a French person that knows the word) he needs to retire. Although I’m not ready to declare that the cinematic experience is without exception inferior on the small screen (especially for digital films like Inland Empire), some films, if not seen on the big screen, might as well not be seen at all. If I were a legislator, I would make compulsory watching Kubrick’s Barry Lyndon, Yimou’s Raise the Red Lantern, Mallick’s Day of Heaven, and every Tarkovsky film on the largest screen available. Also, some films have been disqualified because they simply should not be seen on DVD. My aim isn’t didactic or obscure I’m not playing at, ‘Maura, every serious film lover should see this,’ or, ‘Isn’t this ironic, Maura?’ Nor did I try make the list diverse: I am unabashed sucker for quiet films about sad men. I’ve included alternatives for each film in case she’s seen them. I’ve tailored the list to my perception of Maura’s taste and interest, and also to what I know and suspect her to have seen, which is why there’s no Godard or The Third Man. And now my friend Maura, southern belle, polyglot, and New York underground rock figure du quartier, has come to me on the day my daughter’s to be married and asked for a few titles to add to her Netflix queue. But I can’t help it if I’m baited! I’m like a withered old Ukrainian beggar-witch: I will do no harm unless beckoned. I can prattle on here about Schubert lieder, Francis Bacon, Brakhage and Gettier problems and never feel guilty about retarding human interaction the way such subjects seem to when broached in casual conversation.īut the scattered links I provide aren’t an explicit recommendation like I said: I’m on the wagon now. With so much intake, I need to have some sort of product, and one that doesn’t drain the patience of my friends. (I usually leave my house, but I had an extravagant 35 euro dinner last night that will set me back for a few days). I read for nine hours today, about Watteau and 18th century portraiture, about arch-pianists Liszt and Chopin and their tenuous relationship, and about a very convincing (and necessarily difficult) refutation of some particularly damning things Wittgenstein had to say about the philosophy of art. That’s one of the great things about keeping a blog: it’s cathartic. Although pushing art seems like a natural consequence of heavy consumption, recommendation does little but exacerbate your image as pretentious and pedantic. I still burn albums for friends when asked and circulate my copy of Killer of Sheep among my cinema buds like a samizdat, but I now realize that almost no one likes to be told what to read, watch or listen to, and those that seem to tolerate it rarely take you up on your offers. In the past year or two, I have weened myself from my habit of recommendation.
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