Short Review: No Country for Old Men (film)

No Country for Old Men
Joel and Ethan Coen
2007

Joel and Ethan Coen’s adaptation of Cormac McCarthy’s No Country for Old Men is a violent, tense and downright disturbing cinematic experience, largely due to the calmly diabolical antagonist, Anton Chigurh (played with evil precision by Javier Bardem).

The film’s protagonist, Llewelyn Moss (Josh Brolin), stumbles upon a drug deal gone wrong in the desert and chooses to remove the briefcase of $2 million from the scene. Chigurh shortly picks up his trail and a deadly cat and mouse game begins. Sheriff Bell (Tommy Lee Jones) brings up the rear of the story, always one step behind Chigurh and Moss, dealing predominantly with his own philosophical musings about the coming tide of evil, always feeling out matched. As the story progresses, the true nature of Chigurh becomes apparent and the futility of Moss’ decisions creates an overwhelming sense of despair.

The film’s atmosphere is expertly created through the Coen brothers’ use of sound. They create a sense of emptiness, reflecting the environment of the Tex-Mex border: there is no music save for a mariachi band playing momentarily in front of Moss and a peel of thunder. But what, to a degree, makes the film so unnerving is Chigurh. He is an unstoppable wave of evil. With red-rimmed eyes and Clockwork Orange-esque haircut, he mows down all in his path with tranquil precision and infallible logic (yes, he convinces one character that they must die!).

As their first attempt at an adaptation, the Coen brothers are extremely faithful to McCarthy’s text. In some parts they have just used entire chunks of dialogue from the book. Instead of cutting scenes, out of necessity, they have transformed them to fit within the medium of film, taking almost nothing away from the book.


No Country for Old Men will keep you tense and enraptured, it will challenge your thoughts on morality and logic, and it will show you there is someone as scary as Hannibal. Diabolically entertaining.

SDH

Short Review: The Ecstasy of Owen Muir

Lardner, Ring Jr., The Ecstasy of Owen Muir, 1954, Prometheus: New York, 1997


The more pre-1960s America literature I read, the more interested I become. It started with Kerouac, then Bukowski, then Toole. These authors depict a life I could've seen myself living (save for the flatulence of Mr. Reilly and his preference of flannel and cord), if I'd been conceived in the '30s. Leading a semi-bohemian life, traveling from place to place, with no real cares save for penning what's important to me and close friends.


But then, somehow, I stumbled upon a book by Ring Lardner Jr. called The Ecstasy of Owen Muir whilst reading an article, I think. Or it could've been somewhere on a website, or perhaps on some RSS feed; I'm really not quite sure. Nonetheless, what I read intrigued me enough to buy it, straying off my path of buying what I should read (something I need to give up).
Lardner was an acclaimed screenwriter throughout the '40s, winning an Oscar for Woman of the Year (1947; later winning another for his film adaptation of M*A*S*H [1977]). He served time in jail as part of the Hollywood Ten during the McCarthy era. It was during his time in prison the he cultivated the idea for his comic novel.


Owen is a tale of Owen Muir, a pacifist who spends time in prison (just like Lardner) for refusing to serve in the army. He transforms from an overweight, insightful pacifist into a sturdy, athletic, muscular, insightful pacifist, thanks to the labour within the jailhouse (which leads to a slightly disturbing scene with his sibling upon release). After meeting April, his Catholic secretary, he falls in love and converts to Catholicism, overcoming the only obstacle on the path to marriage. Majority of the novel follows Owen's search for justifying his newfound religion to himself and finding his place in the world. In the process Lardner comments on a myriad of ideas and institutions, such as business ethics, advertising, sex, philosophy, racism, and, rather comically, on the failings of the Church (a major reason for the novel being refused publication in America). One chapter sees Owen calculate his indulgences (an utterly ridiculous concept), which come to a grand total of 84 000 years!!!!!! HA! Anywho, I won't spoil the ending, which is initially anticlimactic but upon meditation fits perfectly.

If you're anti-Catholic, or an atheist or agnostic, or care not for religion at all, or are Catholic and would like to see the oddities of your beliefs presented to you, then this novel is well worth the read. It's pretty standard in length (272 pages) and the prose is free-flowing and somewhat elegant. Although the content can get a little dense, particularly during the philosophical conversations. But even a relatively juvenile knowledge of the Church will allow you to follow these easily.


For a novel that's counted in the 'Literary Classics' range, I'm intrigued as to why it's not more popular (well, I suppose in Australia, what institution would actually assign it to a reading list? Probably book club material, at best). Not only is it a great story but, taken with a grain of salt, provides a valuable insight into a very tumultuous point in American history. 


SDH

25 Years and This is What Happens. Word.

Having eaten a very late dinner of vegies, Superfries, and vegetarian faux chicken nuggets, my lady and I flicked over to ABC and found rage was about to start. To our nonchalant delight, 'Fight for your Right' was first off the bat. Not a bad way to start the night's music. Perhaps rage had a old school mix lined up for this end to the working week.
After the clip had finished, a sense of déjà vu pervaded us both. The same hallway appeared on the screen and this extravaganza followed...



I haven't laughed so hard in a long time. Complete and utter absurdity. Magnificence in all its glory.

SDH

Review: 'I know karate, voodoo too' - Jail Simmons

Self-labelling his art as ‘sarcastically iconoclastic psychedelia’ (2011), Jail Simmons is a burgeoning 24-year-old artist from the Lower Adelaide Hills, whose art is confronting, disturbing and thought provoking.  He pieces have been sold throughout Adelaide and a full exhibition planned for later this year.

In ‘I know karate, voodoo too’ (a line from Tom Waits’ “Goin’ Out West”), the themes running throughout Simmons’ portfolio are apparent. Feminine representation through the Mother Nature-like figurehead at the piece’s centre and its control of two headless roosters (cocks), serving as her arms, reinforces a recurring matriarchal view of society and woman’s control over man; the presence of blood and skulls signifies the ever-presence of death; and, the most common theme throughout his works, Satanism, is visible from the various pentagrams and the reversed cross at the front of the piece, portraying a strong discontent and opposition for religious sects and institutions.

Simmons’ use of earthly colours, the sandy yellow, stone grey, blood red, and scrub green, are used in unison with pale purples and dull electric blues, creating a seamless integration between the natural and the psychedelic.  

There is a subtle arbitrariness of the content mixed with the symmetry of the layout that shows an artist comfortable with his subject matter and confident in his skills. Admitting that most of his paintings come from ‘visions and dreams’, Simmons ability to portray these dreams on canvas with acrylic is nothing short of impressive. Although it is very ‘I know karate, voodoo too’ is initially very confronting but it forced me to contemplate upon what I was seeing, which is something I appreciate, having to think beyond what is present.

To me, its defining aspect, as well as is with all of Simmons’ work, is how the unreal can be contained and portrayed in a realistic way. To get a real idea of what he is trying to accomplish as an artist just through this work would be a mistake. With viewing his entire portfolio comes clarity. His ability to exhibit himself on a canvas allows you to learn a lot from any one of his paintings, but as a whole, his collection will provide an insight into the mindset of an artist struggling with the real and unreal, with primal urges and civilised tendencies, and with society in general.

View his collection here (not sure if you have to be friends with him or not): http://www.facebook.com/media/set/fbx/?set=a.45056632886.59263.586032886

Weekend Reading (If you're as bored as me)

• Cormac McCarthy doesn't give many interviews, so read this one and savour it!
• Alyssa Rosenberg suggests fantasy lit isn't just for men. Why women like to pretend, just as much as men do.
• Assassination, sex, 'Jessica': five ways Shakespeare changed everyday life
• How do you feel about bad Internet grammar? Michael Agger writes how it affects consumers
• A robotic library? WTF? The University of Chicago's soon-to-open Joe and Rika Mansueto Library will blow your mind.
• Before Manny was Manny: for all his shortcomings, you can't help but love him

The Sunset limited was made into a film for HBO (aired in Feb '11). My weekend has been glorified!!!

SDH

Just a Few Things

1. I read 'The Sunset Limited' just recently. From memory, some people questioned Cormac McCarthy about the subtitle of the piece, 'A novel in dramatic form' but surely this is just an innocuous formality. (Actually, if I wasn't such a huge fan I'd probably question this too).
But that aside, this work is quite very breathtaking. The entire novel is a dialogue between Black (a negro) and White (a white professor), in Black's apartment. Their discussion centres almost primarily on religion: Black's unwavering devotion and White's questioning of it. I don't want to give anything away so I'll stop here (White's final comments will knock the metaphorical wind out of you!)

2. The Red Sox have started winning! Huzzah! Gonzo hit his first Fenway bomb (it was high time) and Crawford seems to be edging toward the player he's been for the better part of the last decade. We, and I say 'we' because I am a Red Sox Nation citizen :D, are 6-0 against the Angels this season. Fingers crossed this continues tomorrow. Go Beckett!

3. Skyrim is only six months and one week away. I haven't really ever been so excited for something so antisocial! Slowly building up the annual leave so that nigh on a whole week can be dedicated to Northern Tamriel. If it's anything like Oblivion I'll be happy, but it's going to be better and I don't think there's an adjective capable of describing how this will make me feel. OK, that's a little extreme but you get the point. DRAGONS!

4. Night Hag got a sweeeeet review in Timeoff, a Brisbane street press release, for their 'New Tourists' EP. You can find it on their Tumblr here. I'm heading home in June for the anniversary of Jail's birth and to see some fam. Wordies.

S.D.H

Charles Bukowski "Bluebird."

I forget what it was like before I'd started reading Bukowski.

I'm glad I don't remember.

Station to Home

I’m sitting in Central Station only minutes after nine p.m. I’m sitting on the third allotment of benches upon the quasi-deserted strip dividing platforms Two and Three; only Eight and One house locomotives. An eerie silence pervades the entire complex, broken only by 144 sq ft television mounted on the northern wall, adjacent to a gang of vending machines. This colossus softly enforces popular music videos and commercial advertisements upon iPod-less late night station dwellers, a group that includes me in their ranks.

Aside from the various fluorescent lights and green exit signs, only the rolling, illuminated wall mounted ads serve to prevent any extended nocturnal daydreaming; the uncomfortable absence of the familiar hum of train engines provokes one to become introspective.

Forthcoming work

Hello anybody who stumbles across this,

I have not posted any other stories due to the burden that is my English Honours thesis. If all goes accordingly to plan, this will no longer be the case in twenty-three days. After that, it should not be too long until I have something ready to post.

It will be rather longer than 'The Scarlet Paintbrush', so I may have to post it in installments.

I look forward to the feedback that anyone may give once it is up.

S.D.H

P.s. I implore anyone to comment upon 'The Scarlet Paintbrush', if they have any feedback. Thank you.

The Scarlet Paintbrush

This is the story of my bench. It is not anyone else’s, only mine. Some people think it is theirs but they are wrong. Please do not forget that it is mine. You would probably do well not to forget that.

It was seven thirty-eight on a Wednesday evening. The air was cooling but still warm enough to be wearing only the necessary garments. The hot, sweltering summer, the alleged scientists at the Bureau had predicted, had not shown any signs of occurring, for the third year in a row. But after another cold, dry winter the midday sun could leave one’s bare skin somewhat singed, if exposed for any length of time.

On this particular night, my sister cooked dinner; it tasted of malice, jealousy and resentment. As I stood at the sink, partaking in the menial task of washing the dishes from the abhorrently unsatisfying meal, the odour of its preparation still clung to every object in the confined kitchen, even myself. The strong scent of the roasted chicken, undoubtedly filled with steroids or other growth hormones, still crept from the open oven; the aroma of garden salads tossed, presumably unwashed and swathed with a concoction of insecticides, was emanating from the ugly salad bowl; and the overpowering stench of the garlic cloves, which she insisted were vital for flavour and health, formed an allied force intent on storming my nose; we both knew they were used merely to infuriate me.

The washing up was tedious yet unproblematic; it took all of fifteen minutes, a length of time I would never get back. As I looked out the kitchen window, my person took on a more serene demeanour, resulting from the soft hues created by the setting sun, which continually splashed my face. The sun was roughly an hour from disappearing beyond the horizon for another night. I pondered whether to take advantage of this picturesque twilight. I often endeavoured to make the small promenade down to Westlands Beach to watch Apollo’s golden chariot retire for another night. I could not stand to be incarcerated in this jail of antipathy for much longer, thus I decided to sit upon my bench until nightly darkness enveloped this Wednesday.