Not since Death in Venice when Dirk Bogarde’s bad dye job melted during a pandemic have we seen such a just dessert.
Yes, that’s Rudi Giuliani playing the role of a lifetime: the man who catches the coronavirus while chasing young electoral college voters! In the famous Visconti movie, Von Aschenbach loses his youth to bad makeup under the unrelenting conditions of Venice at its worst.
Now, Rudi loses his cool to bad mascara dripping off his sideburns under the unrelenting conditions of Trump at its worst.
We did not realize that Rudi had been cast in a remake of the great classic tale of unremitting moral decay in the face of losing an election.
Trump has simply drained his hair of all color, and Rudi has not taken the cues properly. His master will not be pleased to turn his press conferences into streaming jokes with streaming bad dye dripping.
The other case of drips came when the Wicked Witch of the West stole Toto and was pressed by the Electoral College to return the mutt to a Kansas voting booth.
All bad taste aside, when you’re paid $20,000 a day to represent the POTUS, you likely don’t have a potus to put hair dye in.
With the second episode of season 8, it is clear that regular and original treasure hunter Dave Blankenship has been either evicted, fired, or otherwise removed from the series. He was a figure head “producer,” for years, meaning his father owned a better part of the Island for years. It now rings hollow when members of the team refer to a re-assembly of the “fellowship.”
At least one jolly good fellow has been eliminated. You could say that Dave Blankenship’s comic relief had run its course, finally and unfunnily.
We have seen this pattern in other History shows, and Dave has been on borrowed time since the death of his father—and he has added little to the show development for many years.
In the meantime, we have two couples in quarantine: Rick and nephew Peter in one house, and Alex and father Marty in another, receiving video call updates from the workers in the field. The real treasure hunters did find a surveyor’s mark in a flat stone, one of many found in 200 years, but the first by this team.
The most curious discovery is to see inside Rick Lagina’s Oak Island home, which he shares with his puppy nephew.
However, the series continues to read like a repeat of itself. Once again, we have some small discoveries that echo past findings. Gary Drayton, as usual, is the main explorer with a touch of near-non-ferrous. He locates another broken pickaxe.
There is also a button and piece of leather. Laird Niven disagrees that it is book-binding and immediately says, “shoe leather.”
Yet, the big news of the night is Gary’s withholding of a rare coin until the Laginas can show up after quarantine. They agree it needs more expertise analysis, but Gary’s sense is always prescient. He claims it is quite old, well before the hunting for treasure and perhaps one of the original diggers.
In all gatherings, the absence of a Blankenship is notable, and even the newly discovered map in an archive is credited to Dan Blankenship’s work in the 1980s in passing.
Can it really be the sixteenth season of Ancient Aliens? With the first episode of the new series, we half-expected the Divine Number to be more than twelve. We have come to expect too much too soon.
Yes, they take on the theoretical work of William Sidis, genius from Cambridge and Harvard in 1914, who used a 12-number cycle for his physics. He saw that there were twelve dimensions in the universe, not three.
Even more impressive, there are apparently twelve vortexes around the world, not merely the Bermuda Triangle.
We knew about the 12 apostles and 12 tribes of Israel, but we did not know there were 12 chakras. Call us a day late and a dollar short of twelve hours on the clock.
Whether you go by the shopping dictum of the twelve days of Christmas, or the Twelvth of Never, you may be outnumbered. Move over, Johnny Mathis, it’s not going to happen.
Being contrarian, we waited for the inevitable discussion of a dozen eggs and a dozen donuts. We knew that a baker’s dozen is 13, but not in the world of Ancient Aliens.It is 12 plus one.
You can eliminate all those clunky ten-counts that lead to too many decimals. When he was arrested at a peace rally in 1919, Sidis was sentenced to 12 plus 6 months in a Massachusetts jail, mostly for being flippant with the judge. The jury is still 12 peers who are out for deliberations, but there is only one judge.
Modern science now suggests that the universe is twelve-sided as cosmic significance. It doesn’t take long for Ancient Aliensto note that the United States’ UFO secret body is called Majestic-12, notables secretly in contact with space civilizations. The show hints that Harry Truman deliberately chose 12 members (we theorize because he had a dozen donuts for breakfast).
From DNA to musical notes, we are suffused with twelve ding dongs of knowledge. The series claims that the Mayan calendar predicted FRB (fast radio bursts) and the 12thparticle of physics all in 2012. You had better be able to understand the Book of Revelations to figure out this dipsy-doodle episode.
If Trump and his psychopaths are humored, we must go back over the past fifty years and declare the loser of every presidential election to be the true winner.
Yes, Jimmy Carter beat that deadbeat Ronald Reagan and the election was stolen.
Barry Goldwater should have been inaugurated, not LBJ, but the election was rigged.
Mike Dukakis was the rightful loser and should have been installed in the Oval office.
Without a doubt, the correct way to hold elections is to let the worst man (or lately woman) be celebrated as the loser with the most votes ever achieved for losing.
Winning is not all it cracks up to be: it simply means you are a cheater and a fraud. Damn the voting machines and the voters who cast ballots. If your candidate is the pits, he should be the incumbent.
Trump has smashed another tradition: losers are better than winners, and anyone who voted for the other guy was a dummy. If you can’t have your way at the ballot box, have Nazi-leaning politicians negate the vote and make their own selection.
If you think this is crazy, you don’t know your history. Most democracies have fallen for less, and all dictators have risen by the din of the dolt supporters.
America has reached its nadir, and the loser is at the bottom of the barrel must be declared riot leader.
Dangerous followers of Trump are around every corner, armed to the teeth with automatic weapons. They parade in the streets and they congregate at places where votes are tabulated. Their intimidation is not a bluff.
Yes, the election is over and the evil caste of Trump racists and Nazis is upon us.
We should remind you of the past killers who have supported Trump. There is no joke here, only terror.
Over the past few years, you had Den Hollander, Nickolas Cruz, and Anthony Comelo. They are now either dead or in prison, but others await to take their place.
In case you forgot, here is a thumbnail sketch of each of these works of horror.
Anthony Comelo was another MAGA hat wearer. He considered any in America who were not born here as “invaders.”
The self-named Annihilator Nickolas Cruz put a MAGA hat on the urn of his dead mother as she was sent to her crypt; she was one who hated Trump. Her murderer son had the last word to belittle and defame his own mother. Now, there’s a real Trump lover.
Trump supporters are the salt of the earth and are genuine American citizens. Because the 19-year-old couldn’t buy a gun in Florida he went for an assault rifle. It’s much easier to shoot, buy, and use. He was partial to merchandise with American logos. Hence, he posted a photo wearing a bandana over his face with stripes on it.
Cesar Sayoc crying out his eyes that he wanted to blow up people for Trump. He regretted being caught.
Whether they are shooting at you from a high rise in Las Vegas, or in a nightclub in Florida, or a mosque in Christchurch, you can count on the fact that your killer and murderer will likely count himself among those who find Donald Trump the man of the hour.
Trump supporters are urging people to buy more AR 15s in case they are banned. They are preparing to go to the White House for a shootout if impeachment dares to rear its head.
They will start shooting media stars. How many lists of famed CNN TV personalities have found their names scrawled in the demented scribbles of killers and potential mass murderers? We are now at the point of having lost count
Den Hollander was another killer (full name: Roy Den Hollander) was a Trump supporter. The man who tried to kill an appointed Obama judge Esther Salas, but only managed to kill her teenage son and shoot her husband, was a Trump fanatic.
One after another, these believers in Trumpism (actually a synonym for racism) are dangerous, vile, and ready to engage in violence for the man who encouraged their mad obsessions.
Jim Brown’s prison movie about the 1917 French island prison came before the prestige movie with McQueen, titled Papillion. They had overlapped during filming, but the speed of Roger Corman could not be matched. He was not interested in “art.” He wanted a product that might titillate audiences
I Escaped from Devil’s Island had all those ingredients.
The film began on a high note: Jim Brown is dragged from his cell in the tropical prison to a makeshift guillotine. He is about to be beheaded before the credits even roll. No flashback was required because the sado-masochistic guards had set this up, knowing a general amnesty for all French prisoners had arrived and no one would be executed. It was cruel kindness.
Of course, this Roger Corman quickie was called a blaxploitation film, geared toward making black audiences approve of a black hero. It’s hard to realize Brown was really doing trail-blazing work, and perhaps the other shocking part of the movie was the open homosexual relationships in the movie. The gay characters are in eye-makeup and are called “fancy boys,” who have boyfriends like James Luisi and Chris George. Rick Ely played the pretty boy who has his nipples tortured in one scene.
Jan Merlin, in eyeglasses, played the leader of the political prisoners—and a communist, which was a true work of performance since Jan was a Republican. For him it was another character unlike his cultured, soft-spoken self, playing at abrasive, uncouth villains. We must confess to be transparent that Jan co-authored many books with Ossurworld.
The “F” word is used surprisingly often for the first time in movies here, often just to discuss homosexual relations. And nearly every male to male encounter is fraught with both sexual and sadistic overtones.
Once the escape plan takes hold, the movie seems to peter out. Yet, films like this paved the way for leading men of the future like Denzel Washington.
The film deteriorates toward the end with a chaotic fireworks display in a city to help the escapees flee authority.
The best performance in this movie was given by Acapulco, the Mexican resort town, playing Devil’s Island.
In 1997 two films appeared about the same topic: Dr. Doyle’s belief in fairies through the medium of photography.
Two notable actors took on the role of Conan Doyle. In a small, but pivotal role in the first of the films came Edward Hardwicke, the ersatz latest Dr. Watson of the popular TV series with Jeremy Brett, and this time he played the same way as he did in his role as Watson.
The second film was on the tail end of one of the biggest movie stars, Peter O’Toole, a man who had played some greats in history (Henry II (in 2 movies Becket and Lion in Winter), as well as Lawrence of Arabia.
The era in which Photographing Fairies and Fairyland: A True Story is a world in which Houdini, Peter Pan, and Sherlock Holmes all exist simultaneously as the Zeitgeists of their age.
O’Toole met a match in performance when Harvey Keitel took on the role of Doyle’s friendly nemesis, Houdini. One of the interesting ironies is that this version of Conan Doyle looks more like Sherlock Holmes.
The producers of the film dropped the golden chance to play Arthur and Harry against each other with top-drawer actors.
To see O’Toole do this movie, it makes us wonder what kind of Holmes he could have given us were that role offered to him earlier in his career.
Both films actively produce fairies in flight about the countryside without any fear that they are mythic or exist only in the minds of children. A theory emerges from this film that creative people, like Conan Doyle, are receptive to the spirit and paranormal world unlike most pragmatic people.
Both films use Dr. Doyle in a small role as a believer in fairies and the occult, putting much focus on the children or younger character demographics aimed at the audience. According to the Doyle Encyclopedia,O’Toole lost out on two chances to star as Holmes (one in Billy Wilder’s comic version, the other playing off Laurence Olivier as Watson). O’Toole’s prickly personality may have done in these chances.
As for the plot of the movie at hand set in 1917, Fairyland: A True Story concerns two little girls who take pictures of fairies out in their wooded backyard. The photos may look fake to us, but there are believers—even among the rich, powerful, and famous.
Our personal concern was for the girls treated by early 20thcentury men—and by late 20thcentury filmmakers. Charles Sturridge directs, and he has deft ability that is most known to audiences who favor PBS and Masterpiece Theatre.
Already in contact with his dead son through a medium, and having a madman father who saw fairies, Conan Doyle is on the bandwagon when the pictures come to his attention.
Fairytale is an intriguing, fascinating fantasy movie that gives Peter O’Toole a chance to provide us with one last grand late career performance.
The remnants of the Arthur Conan Doyle estate have scrapped together a lawsuit against the elements of Sherlock that are not public domain. These ten points of contention are the part and parcel of some post-feminist novels by one Nancy Springer.
We are more horrified by the endless string of ridiculous anachronisms the story seems to throw at history.
Netflix, ever the opportunist, has adapted the novels to a film on their ersatz network of third-rate shows, figuring a ripoff of Holmes fits right in.
It’s likely no mistake that the name of the airplane that dropped the atom bomb on Japan to end World War II is named “Enola.”
The lawsuit takes umbrage with the emotional turmoil when Sherlock must deal with a younger sister as well as a smarter brother. Talk about family troubles.
Throw in Sherlock’s mother as some kind of harpie, and you have the makings of a legal argument. We never had much faith in these family ties or family feud with Sherlock. We always suspected that Mrs. Hudson was his out-of-wedlock mother. She did refer to Mycroft once as a “reptile,” which surely is not motherly. Or is it?
Ignoring an upstart sister seems a fairly proper approach for Sherlock, but he had to put up with an obtuse Watson, mostly created for movie humor, but to give Holmes more emotion than Mr. Spock seems a stretch to the law offices of our solicitor.
We are now feeling emotional blackmail to tune into a Netflix series to give our usual slice and dice approach to all things un-Sherlockian.
To update Sherlock like he is one of the Ma and Pa Kettle movie series of the 1940s is enough to make us eshew the Poverty Row studios once and for all time.
A new documentary on the fate of one of the founders of the Rolling Stones legend has been produced, written and directed by Danny Garcia. This is surely one of the ultimate acts of a groupie of the first order. His paeon to Brian is truly sad.
Jones was another of those rock stars who died at age 27, resulting from a self-destructive lifestyle of drugs and drinking. By the end, one month after he was pushed out of the group by Mick Jagger, he was dead.
Jones was actually the one who put an ad out in 1962 to form a jazz band. Mick Jagger and Keith Richard came to see him and were blown away by his musical talent and brilliant mind. He was the original leader of the group, but his sensitivity led to a hasty downfall.
Keith wanted to sing an occasional song, but there was no way to supplant Mick Jagger. By the time of “Satisfaction,” Brian was mostly dissatisfied with the direction and tone of the group.
His drinking and unreliability made him anathema to the others, and they plotted his removal because he was so unable to show steadiness in a rock field of people out of control.
Jones was thrown out of his home by parents who did not want him to give up classical music, and he was a three time father of illegitimate children by age 19. He was excessive in a world of excess.
Jones was friends with bob Dylan and John Lennon who were more sympathetic than Mick Jagger, but Scotland Yard set-ups of the rock scene were growing. Fake drug busts enhanced any drug usage, and Jones was victim. He was shocked at the hostility and fell apart, even according to his father Lewis.
Was Jones murdered? Evidence suggests that police were not forthcoming about the possibility. Jones had only the equivalent of three pints of beer in his system—and prescribed drugs. He was involved in a fight with a thug contractor who was repairing his Sussex home—and to whom Jones owed him much money.
Mick Jagger and Keith Richard refused to participate in the biography made 50 years after Brian’s death.
A fictionalized movie called Stoned seemed to follow this theory.
The 1971 schlock version is one of those international efforts done on a shoestring budget, re-imagining rather poorly the better done Hollywood stuff of several decades earlier. This title was redone a few years ago, but the original starred Rosalba Neri, who never made it to Hollywood, and never made it much beyond bad movies in the title role.
The real draw of this film done on cheap film stock that has not held up is one of the foremost gentleman stars of Old Hollywood: Joseph Cotten. Without his presence, we’d probably have shut this off well before his exit from the picture at around 40 minutes, not quite half the movie.
Cotten must have needed a paycheck, but he must have known his name would guarantee this drive-in drivel would be seen in the U.S.. No matter for him, his best roles were behind.
He never won an Oscar, despite working with Hitchcock as the Merry Widow Killer in 1942, or as a costar to Orson Welles many times, including Ciitizen Kane and The Third Man. He even did a turn opposite Marilyn Monroe in Niagara. Here, the great star slums in his work with Mel Welles, not Orson, as director. Instead of respected classics, Mel Welles was known for low budgets like Little Shop of Horrors (again, the original).
There are no real names here, except Mickey Hargitay as the captain or constable of police. And, unlike the old Universal classics in which the aristocrats had British accents of the first order, here you have a mishmash of American and international accents that make the setting hard to fathom.
One villain, the Resurrection Man, is named Lynch, which is hardly Eastern European like the original Frankensteins. Here too, Cotten is both Baron Frankenstein and Doctor, though he seems to prefer Dr. His daughter is an early Suffragette of sorts, having done med school and is also a surgeon who will take over Dear Old Dad’s lab.
The Monster is disfigured by accident by lightning during the revival process, but his brain—as usual—was defective from the get-go. Oh, well. Better luck next time.
Flush twice, Boston. It’s a long way to the bottom of the septic tank.
It would appear only two people recognized how bad Boston’s sports teams would be this year: the two stars who bailed on the town they never liked. We speak of Mookie Betts (World Series victor) and Tom Brady (another Super Bowl in Tompa Bay).
Every sports pundit and media expert in Boston failed to see the writing on the wall. Maybe they just can’t read Sanskrit or profanity.
Some are now casting blame on the genius Bill Belichick. Those people have clearly thought genius and hubris were synonyms. Belichck systematically disarmed Tom Brady over the years until the man ran off with Antonia Brown, deserting his Julie in the process.
The Red Sox threw a boatload of money at Mookie and he gave them the finger, not the thumbs up. Some claim these Trump supporters hated Boston’s political climate—as does Belichick. And owners who poured cash into winning, now are extracting cash faster than you can say Trump Tower bankruptcy.
Only Robert Kraft who likes to kiss his players’ butt has been caught with his pants down. John Henry has become the Claude Rains of Boston We used to see him at Symphony Hall now and then with a beautiful young man in tow, but the pandemic seems to have put the kibosh on those tunes.
Now we have a Bean Town full of beans and no counters to the problem of no beanie balls.
We are headed back to the 1960s when Patsies played at Fenway to empty seats and the Sox played to the same group in the other season.
No one believes us when we tell them about the good old days when you could go to Fenway on game day and find a box seat two rows back from the field. Maybe those days are coming baaaack.
Sacha Baron Cohen has been called “a creep” by the POTUS because of his merciless political satire on the entire McDonald Trump administration. Oi Vey, to say the least.
In a turn of the screw, Cohen’s Borat refers to the fast-food President as McDonalds Trump. There is one zinger after another in this horrifying movie. Borat requires a sense of humor of the 21stcentury: Oscar Wilde and Noel Coward fans need not apply.
Borat comes, as his followers know, from a backward nation under Putin’s thumb. There is an Arab streak in him inexplicably. Since his first movie fifteen years ago, he has been a political prisoner in his homeland, released only with another dangerous US mission. He is to deliver a pornographic monkey to Mikhael Pence, as a peace/piece offering.
When this fails, Borat plans to give Pence, Trump, or any of the Epstein followers his young teenage daughter. Yikes.
No one is spared the spot-on nasty barbs. If you like your political cruelty nothing short of Chaplin’s Great Dictator, you may have some kind of reincarnation in Barron Cohen (who shares a name with Trump’s son, about all they have in common).
The world will long note the zingers that never miss.
If you suffer from a syndrome known as “bad taste,” this is your movie. Borat lampoons all American life ruthlessly, and goes through a list of men to offer his daughter (all McDonald Trump aides are in jail or under arrest). This leaves him with Rudi Giuliani—and that leaves us with the biggest political shocker of many years of political humor.
We cannot think of a more worthy political target.
What exactly is faked in this movie? You likely have to watch it for yourself to make a hard decision on the corrupt nature of Trump’s associates.
This is a whack job movie, and defies good taste, political boundaries, and critical assessment.
Mother of Mercy, can this be the end of the Patriot juggernaut of two decades? The road to glory seems to have run out of pavement.
After a glorious 20-year run, spending most of the time in first place in the hearts of Patriots Nation, the home town team seems to have hit a bump in the road. At least there are no sinkholes ahead. They are sinking in one now.
Yes, the Patriots are no longer in sole possession of the top spot to the playoffs. They are in their first slump of of the 21stcentury. When your first slump comes with the dog days of a pandemic, you are about to find cause to worry that rivals the Black Death in sports.
The last time a Patriots team came into a prolonged slump, they went into the poop chute faster than you can say Shaeffer Stadium.
We are more inclined to worry this time. There is no way they can equal the sinking of the titanic teams of the 1970s, which stands as a benchmark of hubris. We saw the past, and the future looks much the same.
This time their QBs have gone soft. We have not exactly seen a team with endless TD power, but their ability to make timely scores has lost more games than expected.
Now the dinner bell, like the guns over Flanders Field, have gone silent. Scarce heard below are the dead Pats of previous seasons hoping the present underdogs have caught the torch and will hold it high.
Short days ago the Patriots won, Brady looked younger than youth, and Bill Belichick looked like a genius, but now the Pats are starting to look like the embalmed teams of the yesteryear, or like the Jets.
Cheer up, fans! This may be only an aberration on the road to the Super Bowl. . A team with character knows their fate is in the hands of Bill Belichick and Cam Newton.
How can anyone ever forget the great Lord Laurence Olivier playing Zeus in Clash of the Titans? In one hilarious moment, he yelled out, as only he could, “Release the kraken!”
Good heavens, now decades later, Monsterquest has indeed released the Kraken, a legendary god of the Deep Blue Sea. We have been accused often of being Kraken in Der Head. Now we have Kraken on the brain.
If you like your fishy monsters with a pedigree, the Kraken is your sea creature. Alas, Monsterquest is after the Humboldt Squid: still a voracious, muscular, omonster of the deep. Never seen, but theorized to be a hundred feet in length, they have populated Jules Verne novels, but have remained science fiction mostly.
Now, there will be an attempt to prove they live in the depths and never surface. They will eat anything, including you.
This latest episode is an update of a 2006 show that captured a giant squid on camera for the first time. The 2019 version featured Scott Cassell, the same expert, whose blonde hair is now snowy white. The cute researchers are now long in the tooth, and the latest Monsterquest team is basically a new batch of thrill-seekers.
What else can you say about guys who don’t mind being attacked by angry squid. One complains, there must be an easier way to make a living—but they’d never go for it.
There is, he contends, as many giant and colossal squid (the 100 feet long ones) as there are people on earth, but they are so deep in the oceans they are never seen.
If anything comes out of this show, it is the idea that 1000 years ago these things were called Kraken—and they are highly intelligent and observant! That may be enough to say, leave them alone.
Your NFL might be game spoilers, but they are contemptuous of society’s rules of good faith and good manners. Yes, they have shown their hypocrisy again by caving in to the whims of Tom Brady, that traitor slug whose personal looks are as fake as his so called family values.
Now a pirate-headed shot-caller in Trumpabay, Tom left leftist New England for the land of no income tax: Florida. Like the true Trumpist he is, he has no sense of shame when it comes to his racism.
It’s not America that Tom wants Great. It’s himself.
He has befriended mental case Antonio Brown, not for altruistic reasons, but for good old-fashioned plain greedy reasons. He wants to prove what a great quarterback he is—and he is calling for the talent he wants, even if the rest of the world is horrified.
Antonio Brown is a walking text book for sexism, misogyny and rape. So, family man Tom Brady wants him as his receiver. He even let this nutcase live in his house for a few weeks in New England. Wife and kids be damned.
The Patriots and sex toy Robert Kraft (even Belichick the Cheat, could not abide Antonio Brown and released him.
Now Tom’s hissy-fit antics in Tampa have caused HC Bruce Ariens to go against his political instincts and become the new Bruce Aryans. Yes, he will do whatever fascist Tom Brady requests. He too wants to win.
The NFL is like that: money over integrity, bull-headed control over common sense, racism and sexism over logic and science. It’s Trump’s guys gone wild.
We can only hope that Brown will not deliver the packages and Brady will be a Tampa Dud. However, we expect our Proud Boys will line up behind Tom Brady. It’s a year of pandemic gold.