Friday, September 4, 2015
Sunday, August 30, 2015
STEP AWAY FROM THAT POSTHUMOUS UNPUBLISHED MANUSCRIPT.
In a recent exchange on the relative merits of posthumous Jimi Hendrix albums, I took a position that maintained that the late guitarist wasn't a jazz musician and certainly not a John Coltrane in terms of technical genius. Coltrane, also a musician who died young, was a saxophonist who had gone beyond the pale in his training, practicing and experimentation. At a young age he had covered a lot of different styles, opened up jazz saxophone to worlds that are, in my view, still not fully understood or sufficiently translated.
His posthumous records, live dates, are all essential things for our culture to return to . Hendrix was a genius-in-the-making, a natural musician who could conceptualize a larger, fuller, more textured sound, but he lacked discipline, finally, and was in such a state that the wealth of his after life releases are live dates which are out of tune and glutted with the dissonance of flubs, not experimentation. It is music that Hendrix would not have wanted released, in my view. My discursive other had the opposite view, to be sure, and I will allow him the honor of summarizing his ideas on his own dime.It's not unlike what happens when great writers have their weakest scribblings finding the light of the printed page after they've drifted into the dirt nap.
What gets with the publication of The First Man,
the posthumous novel by the brilliant Albert Camus. Critical consensus
is it's the equal of his best novels, and I agree. Honesty in these
publications would ease by disease with the matter, perhaps, if the
emphasis discussed were more historical than aesthetic. The fact remains
that there are thousands who want to get a thrill equal to the jag they
felt when they read Miller, Thompson, Hemingway, et al, the first time,
and it remains a good bet that readers will disguise their
disappointment with posthumous efforts with a further elaboration of the
mythology--all the cant, clichés and truisms that clog up a cult
writer's reputation--which will make this phenomenon a permanent vex.
It
would be a challenge, but I suspect I would have done as Max Brod did
and published Kafka's work. Brod claims to have told his dying friend
that he would not carryout the last request of publishing the
manuscripts. True or not, it is known that Brod had encouraged Kafka to
publish during his lifetime, to little avail .Being an editor ,
publisher, author in his own right, he likely couldn't stand the thought
of having what he thought as a major body of writing going up in smoke,
unread. It was a matter of establishing a deserved reputation for
greatness for a writer who wasn't able to judge his own validity;
Nabokov had a major reputation and publications at the time of his
death, and was, I think, using sound judgment when he requested the last
manuscript to be burned. It was a practice run, a series of notes, not a
book. I think Nabokov was the best critic of his own work.
me about what's been done with the unpublished work of dead
writers is the way in which they're presented; one is nearly always
promised that what we have in our hands is a "lost masterpiece" . In any
case, the marketing promises writing on a level of these writers’s best
work, but this seldom the case. There are exceptions, though, as
Saturday, August 29, 2015
The clown shoes are off!
There was a joke told by Rodney Dangerfield about trying to catch your
own profile as you walk by a store window, thinking that you could you
see yourself, if only for a nanosecond, in a state of not being aware
that you're being observed. All in vain, of course, as all you catch is a
snapshot of you pouting somewhat, puckered like a lovesick fish,
grimacing with downcast eyes, annoyance tempering the disappointment of
not catching your reflection unaware. In the meantime, you
bump into people you didn't see coming the other way. You mumble
apologies, get of earshot of profanities, careful not walk into traffic
when you come to the corner. There's an attempt to recover from this sudden embarrassment by rifling through a mental card file for poems, tv shows or the last good sex you had as a means of distracting from being exposed, you believe, to the world as being human and not completely altogether when you walked out the door. Vanity is the real meaning of the name your parents gave you and you wonder with all the atrocities and incidental evils perplexing the globe how could succumb to such a minor-league narcissism .
On the other side of the window are the
people who have already arrived to where they were going, seated at
tables over glasses of water and wine, looking at menus; you imagine
yourself already at the location you need to get to, safe in a seat with
a wife, watching television, anonymous in the shadows of your own
making. On the coffee table are the glasses you thought would aid you in
seeing the pure profile of you perfect jawline, the certitude of the
chin rising to like the prow of a ship cutting a path through aggravated
waters, next to the iPod and the ear pieces you wore to make the world
sound less like a city at war with it's mechanical parts and more like
sound track for an under-lit porno. All in this world of caffine and chatter appears to be going along as expected, nothing planned, nothing sinister on the surface of things, just coffee and over-sugared pastries making the chatter, hand gestures and facial expressions more dramatic than they would under what one imagines would be normal circumstances. Everything, even the doilies under the saucers cradling the expensive coffee drinks, seemed agitated and angular. A man and woman at a corner table have abandoned the books and crossroads they came to kill time and were discussing poetry and poets,their voices raising in volume until the nerves in the back of your neck take up the vibe and your brain is jolted again with the power of someone else's anxiety and their over emphasis on phrases that demanded the emphasis to start with. Discussing Rilke might as well been a debate on abortion rights, exchanging views on Rimbaud could have been death threats and daggers across a muddy battle ground. The universe has no volume control. Everyone is deaf and they all want to be heard.
The clown shoes are off, the tie is
undone, the television nags at you with come ons for shampoo and
retirement accounts, prescription drug plans and limited edition gold
coins and commemorative plates, your wife is already asleep , you cannot
stop thinking of what it is you need to do, your fingers twitch, move
in motions like warm up exercises , you want to write something that
will put the light back into the day that get darker the longer you stay
alive, you want clarity, you don't want to vanish as though turned off
with a remote control, reduced to something less than the white do that
used to dominate the television screen when the last credit scrolled by
and bed time was immediate, irrevocable. You might miss something, you
might miss lending your voice to the running stream of remarks that make
up the news of the moment, you wanted to write history as it happened,
the evidence of your senses keen enough to define the tone and temper of
the good and bad things that make this existence such an exciting thing
to stay awake for
Friday, August 28, 2015
Christopher Nolan makes mostly boring movies
Following, the first film by Christopher Nolan, is has the out-of-sequence narrative style of his American film breakout hit "Momento",
detailing, in a notably shattered way, the intensely strange
relationship between a would-be writer, desperate for things to write
about, and a professional burgler. While the viewer has a task
assembling a linear storyline from the piecemeal details offered, the
movie is compulsively watchable, and there is a sense of a the "normal"
everyman being seduced by a bad influence and used as means to achieve
dishonorable ends. Well done.
Interstellar was
good in terms of being a technical marvel and an example of what
well-composed camera shots can get you, but the film wasn't so stellar
as a thought provoking masterpiece that director and co-writer
Christopher Nolan likes to attempt making. It has what one could term
the "Apocalypse Now" syndrome, where an ambitious director of
acknowledged skill and accomplishment attempts to grasp and discuss , in
visual narrative form, a series of intellectually daunting notions
that, for all the spectacular visuals and endless minutes of characters
pondering metaphysics, resist an convincing transition to film.
As much as I have enjoyed "A.N."
(I have watched a dozen times easily since its original theater
release) , Francis Coppola didn't evoke "the horror" nearly as cogently
as Joseph Conrad did in the movie's source material, the short story
"Heart of Darkness"; as brilliant as many sections of the movie was ,
the Viet Nam saga relied on spectacle over interior rumination. Prose
fiction has definite advantages over film with respect to seducing the
reader into the private cosmology of heroes and villains. But beyond the
keen distinctions between what prose and film are able of conveying,
it's clear that Nolan is a terrible plotter; he cannot write a third act
that provides a satisfying ah-ha!To coin a phrase, the harder
he tries for significance beyond the thrills and visceral confirmation
of what passes as truth, justice and irony in our popular culture, the
more trying his films become to endure.
Coppola, to his
great credit, had a genius for creating outstandingly comic and absurd
scenes even if the all-together philosophy that was to give Apocalypse Now
gravitas wasn't achieved, not nearly. It is a watchable, memorable
film. Nolan is serious like surgery, humorless, dour, vaguely depressed,
mumbling in half-heard abstractions. Not fun."Interstellar" ,
in turn, concerning a mission to the far reaches of known space to
ostensibly find a habitable planet for the population of a dying earth
to migrate to, sub themes like love, honor, loyalty and the like are
handily mixed in with hazier , not easily rendered subjects, physics and
metaphysics alike, which means , of course, that there far too many
instances where the otherwise attractive likes of Matthew McConaughey
and Anne Hathaway are sitting in their technological huts literally
talking about the meaning of life. It is a ponderous exposition that
makes the pace of Interstellar sluggish . Nolan, is at an instance where
he has no other method to make his movies move forward. Nolan has a problem writing coherent third acts, most notably in his third Batman film and inInception". Nolan's fondness for large vistas and other sorts of visual exposition, both in "Inception"
and "Interstellar". The tendency is chronic in the new film, with grand
and sweeping shots of corn fields at the film's beginning and later, on
one of the planets being investigated for possible human habitation ,
large, high contrast panoramas of frozen ice and mountain ranges.
The
problem , as usual with Nolan, isn't execution, but duration. The
cameras dwell too long on the shots, lingering sleepily. There is in 'Interstellar",
as well, an overbearing music score, soundtrack, composed by Hans
Zimmer; often times Matthew M's trademarked gritty whisper turns into
hushed garble. Entire swaths of dialogue are lost in the conflicted
soundtrack. It swells up at moments when there is an explanatory bit of
conversation going on. Even the least interested person in the matter of
how effective music background can be in creating dramatic tension has
the innate awareness of when it works and when it does not; how anyone
can leave this production and not feel manipulated , coaxed and
otherwise coerced by the noise level to a level of nervous anticipation
is, I believe, impossible. Direction, motivation and coherence diminish
even more and one is puzzled why the music is bearing down on you when
nothing interesting is happening. It is a mess, a hurried, hasty,
careless mess. Nolan does not engage the senses, he bullies them.
The
final sequence of the film is quite fantastic , a fanciful illustration
of another kind of existence, and this is a sequence I would watch the
movie again for, but there is the nagging feeling that the plot twist at
the movie's mid point was less a what-the-hell?!-moment than
it was a set up for the sort of deliberate virtuosity that was lurking
around the corner. There is always a sense in Nolan's recent work that
he was bored with the process of perfecting his script and rushed into
production without really a clear vision of what he was trying to
convey. It should be noted as well that Nolan mistakes length and
vaguely outlined ideas as narrative poetry, as a sign of greater depth. I
think it is actually a sign of weight, not gravitas, and that weight
sinks the enterprise altogether.
Inception was a colossal strain on my attention span , as was director Chris Nolan's previous film The Dark Knight.
Both the films were well mounted and the available budgets were well
used--as they say, you could "see the money on the screen"--but Nolan
mistakes plot confusion and ambiguity for some variant of poetic
ellipsis; some issues are unresolved, or forgotten about, it seems, as
the crowded confines of I and DK pile on the dialogue,
the mid-chase explanations, the chaotic , jagged cuts between parallel
scenes. The plot concerns of Inception are the stuff that made Phillip
K.Dick such a brilliant, if harried science fiction writer; Leonardo
DiCaprio as a high tech industrial spy who has the skill and technology
to enter a subject's mind during sleep and extract professional secrets
for business rivals. The problematic point , though, is that he's
haunted by the death of his wife, who's image keeps appearing in the
dreamscape he and his team construct to fool the sleeping subject. She
is the ghost that follows the team leader in whatever scenario he
concocts-- her appearences no good.
Nor do they bode well
for cohesive story telling; after a splendid first thirty minutes in
which the viewer is landed in the middle of the action--a tasty
variation of the James Bond tuxedo-ed assassin ploy--the film chokes on
back stories, flashbacks, and stretches of dialogue that seek to
contextualize the hurried scenes.
Had the film been a
leaner, less cluttered tale, attempting, as it does, the sort of
convoluted layering a competent commercial novel might have, Inception
might have been an intelligent adventure film: issues of love, morality,
political economy, redemption could have been discussed in conjunction
with concurrent action. The abstract (a conventional set of ethical
challenges , really) would have been realized cogently in the narrative
flow. The movie, though, stops again and again and yet again with a
flashback, an extended pause in the momentum, so DiCaprio can discuss
his feelings, make a another emotional breakthrough.
Confusion and ambiguity were the working idea behind Momento,
and to the degree that Nolan conceived his idea and worked through the
variations of a memory-impaired man attempting to advance a plan of
vengence in a present he couldn't keep in mind, it worked splendidly,
wonderfully. The film had an ironic twist--a real one, not one of those
cookie cutter conclusions that wallow in the irresolution of a
conflict--which made the fractured plot coherent, finally,and
illustrated consequences beyond what the hero or the villians could
imagine.The various scenarios at play in Inception, though were, of
themselves , simple enough, but Nolan's problem was pacing and, sorry to
say, the inability to make the characters connect with a believable
emotion. The film was rather frantically edited , and the cutting
between the three dreamscapes in the last third of the film were long in
duration. The effect on this viewer was a loss of interest in a mission
who's impetus was more hysterical than urgent.
All this
makes Christopher Nolan a lead-footed action director who is intent on
turning the pleasures of pulp genres into think pieces and talky
existential dioramas. Economy is the key, of course, and decisiveness is
the quality needed the most; conviction about the genre your using to
get your narrative ideas across. A fresh idea would have helped ,
though, or at least a fresh approach on using old ones; Inception has
deep echos of The Matrix, Heat and Solaris during it's
length, the result being an interesting, if tedious distortion of what
seems to have started out as an interesting idea.
--------------------------------
The Dark Knight Rises
has inspired a dedicated coterie of nay sayers who complain that the
film is a lugubrious bore, muddled in plot and spectacularly pedestrian
in superhuman feats; considering that the director is Christopher Nolan
, an artist who chases bad ideas with the same meticulous ambition he
pursues good ones, the charge might have credibility if one hadn't seen
the film. Chris Nolan's last film "Inception" was a superb
example of what this director does with an idea when he decides to worry
the notion and overwork it to the extent that it becomes a slow,
waddling crawl of a film bloated with intellectual pretensions that
cease to be parts of an intricate premise and more a case of a
screenwriters who have fallen in love with the sound of their own voice
In other words, this auteur of bleak proves himself capable of being
hung with the many strands of his own ideas--so many loose strings left
untied. "Dark Knight Rises", though, benefits greatly for
having comic books as its source material, a form that demands a leaner,
straight forward narrative.
Not that TDKR is a
simple tale--it's a murky terrain of moral ambivalence, self doubt and
ambivalent morality--but Nolan provides a masterful tone to all of this,
a noirish brooding contained in this film's dark corners, and moves
along the plot points at a relatively brisk pace, considering the length
of the film. It is a murky film, but it is an epic murk, a series of
catastrophes wherein in it appears that not just the characters fight
for what it is good and decent in this world, but also the zeitgeist,
the spirit of the times, struggling to free itself of many foul diseases
that have invaded its body politic. The Dark Knight Rises has a
Gotham City that is a noble force battling every bit of foulness a
malevolent universe can toss at it. It is an epic tale and to witness
this is enthralling. Nolan, who can indeed be pretentious and vague in
his work, did well, very well this time out.
Monday, August 24, 2015
Those who can, think. Those who can't , think
I used to insist that poems that didn't
have "dirt under the fingernails" were without value, insisting that
live as it's lived by working men and women in America were more
interesting , more complex and more important than the dense, academic
poems one was made to read in contemporary poetry anthologies. In full
disclosure, I was an undergraduate at the time, in the mid to late
seventies, an earnest poet trying to be relevant who, incidentally, was
having problems in literature courses requiring same said anthologies.
There might have been a worthwhile insight somewhere in my whining for a
polemic I could write if I cared to take the time, but it suffices to
say that I was lazy, too lazy to read the poems, too stoned to go to
class, far, far too stoned to read the secondary sources to be prepared
for class discussions or for the papers I had to write. I did what
anyone genuine undergraduate poet/radical/alkie would do; I blamed the
system. So there.
It
took a bit of doing--sobering up, bad grades, failed relationships--for
me to get wise(r) and actually read the work I thought unworthy, and
the remarks of critics who've done their own work considering the
aesthetics at length, and I've since backed away from trying to shoe
horn all poetry into a tight fitting tuxedo. What was learned was
relatively small, a revelation for the truly dense; poetry works in many
ways, and the task of the critical reader cannot be merely to attack
and opine but to make an effort to weigh a poem's elements on their own
merits , studying how effects are accomplished, and then, finally,
lastly, to offer a judgement whether the poem works . Not that I adhere
to this prolix method--I shoot from the hip and often miss the whole
darn target--but I try. Now the issue is whether a poem can work if it
lacks the glorious thing called "heart".
Anyone
seriously maintaining that a work of art, be it poem, novel or painting
is doomed to failure because it lacks this vague quality called "heart"
has rocks in their head. Artists are creative people, on that most of
us can agree, and by definition artists of narrative arts make stuff up
from the resources at hand. Whether the source is actual experience,
anecdotal bits from friends or family, novels, biographies, sciences,
all these are mere furniture that go into the creation of the poem. The
poet's purpose in writing is to produce a text according to some loosely
arranged guide lines that distinguish the form from the more discursive
prose form and create a poem that arouses any number of responses, IE
feelings, from the reader. "Heart", I suppose , would be one of them,
but it's ill defined and too vaguely accounted for to be useful in
discussing aesthetics. Confessional poetry and the use of poetry books
and poetry readings as dump sites for a writer's unresolved issues with
their life doesn't impress me generally, as in the ones who do the
confessing never seem to acquire the healing they seek and instead stay
sick and miserable and keep on confessing the same sins and complains
over and over. Journaling would be one practice I would banish from a
poetry workshop I might teach. We are writing poems, not an
autobiography .
I
would say, actually, that one should suspect that poet who claims that
every word of their verse is true, based on facts of their lives. I
cannot trust the poet who hasn't the willingness to fictionalize or
otherwise objectify their subject matter in the service of making their
poems more provocative, worth the extra digging and interpreting. Poems
and poets come in all shapes and sounds, with varied rationales as to
why each of them write the way they do, and it's absurd and not to say
dishonest that "heart", by which I mean unfiltered emotionalism, is the
determining element as to whether a poem works or not. My goal in
reading poems isn't to just feel the full brunt of some one's soggy bag
of grief or splendid basket of joy, but to also to think about things
differently.
The best relationship between practice and theory ,
as regards the arts (and poetry in particular) is when one blends with
the other in a seamless fashion. It's a process that begins with the
work itself, a reading and rereading of the poem, let us say, and then ,
after some routine reflection, referencing any number of critical
schemes I think might work in bringing what's contained in the stanzas
out from under the subterfuge. Seamless is the word I'd like to use, and
it applies here although the handy term has diminished impact with
overuse;all the same, theories of criticism , for me,are a way of
extending the poem into general discourse.
Poetry works in many ways, but so does criticism, and a pragmatics of
interpretation is the most useful way for me to make a poet's work
something other than another useless art object whose maker adhered to
someone else's rules. My gripe is a constant one, that each succeeding
school of thought on what poets should be doing are too often
reductionist and dismissive of what has been done prior. This isn't
criticism, it's polemics, contrary to my notion that what really matters
in close readings is the attempt to determine whether and why poems
work succesfully as a way of quantifying experience and perception in a
resonating style.
Monday, August 17, 2015
U.N.C.L.E. says uncle
I should be writing a review of a recently read book, I know, but although there a few of them on my night stand, dog eared and completed as summer reads, my appetite is also for pop culture's less reputable districts, movies, comic books, television. I confess, as high brow as I pretend to be , as middle brow as I more often come across as , my taste go lowbrow, pure and simple. The fast, forgettable pleasures of action movies sucker me in. It's a love that cannot die at least on my part, but it is not a love that is always returned.
I had always thought that being a secret agent meant that you did your best to remain more or less anonymous while doing the dirty work a mission demanded. It should go without saying that being inconspicuous, the kind of person in public or in the work place others wouldn't take a second glance at, is essential to effective spy craft. Henry Cavill , portraying super spy Napoleon Solo in The Man from UNCLE, director Guy Ritchie's relaunch of the cult 60s TV spy drama, is , for an nominal espionage agent, a large conspicuous presence wherever he appears in this film. Leaving the plot aside , which is a weaker version of any number of heist films we've witnessed in the last decade, Solo is supposed to be a suave, well tailored American antiquities expert.
Cavill, though, has a super-hero physique that looks, let's say, like it would be asset if we were wearing blue tights and a red cape. Here, though, the broad shoulders, wide chest and thick arms make all the expensive suits, shirts and vests look tight , constraining on him. Cavill, an Adonis by any other criteria, looks absurd here as the the unassuming, if alluringly naughty jet setter insinuating into the confidence of an enemy he is trying to wrest secrets from.
At any moment in the film you expect to rip his shirt, split his pants and excuse himself, effectively useless, to the men's room . The credibility is helped no further when your partner , a surly psychopath in Illya Kuryakin, likewise doesn't blend in with the surroundings. Rather, Kuryakin, stands above it, a tall, figure constantly looking downward at whoever he's talking to. Where Cavill resembles a Herculean lounge lizard, Armie Hammer as Kuryakin looms like a tall, dead tree over an overdressed scenery. His acting is just as lifeless.
The visages of both do not bode well for the kind of espionage that needs to be performed, even by the disbelief-suspending conventions of spy movies. Solo looks like a body guard being molested by a suit a half size too small for his broad frame, and Kuryakin hovers like a gangly , nervous father chaperoning his daughter's first date. Both are figures you notice and keep your eye on as long you're in the same room with them. If you were a rich bad person and noted these two lurking around your open bar and feasting off the buffett, you would ask your waiters to count and then lock up the good silver ware, after which you would instruct your henchmen to get ready to knock these guys over the head.
That does not literally happen in this dreadful remake of a charming 60s TV fantasy, but surprises that don't surprise, twists that don't turn your head around, setbacks that seem more nuisance than threats to to the existence of mankind about through this movie's duration. Ritchie quite often tries to jazz things up a bit with some slick editing,arial pans of lovely Italian country sides and coastal villages, and generous portions of gun fire and explosions. None of that rises The Man from UNCLE its tractionless tedium.
That does not literally happen in this dreadful remake of a charming 60s TV fantasy, but surprises that don't surprise, twists that don't turn your head around, setbacks that seem more nuisance than threats to to the existence of mankind about through this movie's duration. Ritchie quite often tries to jazz things up a bit with some slick editing,arial pans of lovely Italian country sides and coastal villages, and generous portions of gun fire and explosions. None of that rises The Man from UNCLE its tractionless tedium.
Thursday, August 13, 2015
TRUE DETECTIVE Season 2 , was very fine noir,
Jessica Reed writes a cogent defense of the second season of True Detective in The Guardian, countering assertions of bad casting and performance, bad writing, misogyny and incoherence with clear arguments, clean examples. One understands that she "gets" the show and what creator and writer Nic Pizzolatto was aiming for with this gem of a sentence from her article's fourth paragraph: "The message sent to us by the first episode’s final scene: we are entering a cursed place. Enter the world of Vinci, California, and you might never be able to escape its tentacles."
It would be interesting for someone to write a piece about the
herd-think that has gone wild on the internet, arriving en masse to the lone
talking point that TD2 is an "utter disaster". I was disappointed at
first that the second season didn't seem more like the elegantly written and
more typically "artful" style of the first, but I remained with the
show and appreciated the differences. This was California noir, in the
tradition of Hammett, Chandler, Jim Thompson, 'China Town", "Kiss Me
Deadly", "Asphalt Jungle", a dark exposition and exploration
into crime, treachery, divided loyalties, hidden agendas, political scandals,
kidnapping, drugs, sex, lust, avarice, the whole gamut of twisted and
tortuously rationalized actions. It's a tradition of complex storylines, where
nearly everyone advances balled faced lies and put forth competing fictions to
hide real motives and cruel truths. Often times the plots are as near to
incoherent as one can go'; and such affairs rarely go quickly, at a pace more
suitable for the stock action film. It's a slow build, a slow uncovering, where
every lie that gets exposed reveals more treachery, hidden agendas, crimes
committed in dark places.
The casting was spot on for what the characters were supposed to be. Vaughn,
I think, nailed the terse, near expressionless crime boss who tried to be
Hemingway stoic while the buried rage cracked his facade. He was not everyone's
choice, but after the peculiarities in the attention grabbing gestures of Matt
M. and Wood H. from last season, I was perfectly happy with the less
articulate, subdued qualities of these characters.
And the dialogue, another aspect
that's been bitched about to no end, was clearly a stylistic choice by writer
Nick Pizzicato; the ostensible detectives uncovering the crimes through this
mess are themselves broken and corrupted and here are attempting to do
something resembling police work in order to bring rough justice to those who deserve it. The truth,
though, does not set you free, as the whole shebang becomes a ball of tar that
has every vice stuck to it. I thought the bits of mumbled and muddled
philosophy and wooden poeticism was effective in conveying the idea that the
characters attempting to convey a sense of irony over recent events have little
or no idea about what they're doing, what their goals are, or even where they
stand as creatures with deeds to do, duties to perform. It was, I think,
grossly under rated. It was mess, sure, but these kinds of stories are mood,
not symmetry as it’s typically understood. It's a mess and it was beautiful,
moody, nerve wracking and powerful
I liked the fact the show diverged from the creepy eloquence of the
first season and instead placed us in a world of compounded noir particulars
whose characters, good guys and bad guys, were not as well spoken as they
thought they were. It was a moody eight episodes that had criminal conspiracies
sprawling all over the landscape like Los Angeles county itself, and the fact
that the investigators were a trio of cops with heavy
baggage trying to decipher the thick over the layered sediment of deception and corruption just made this
fascinating for me.
Film noir is a genre famous for obtuse plots that are thick,
hard to follow, at times bordering on incoherent; the point seems to be to
expose and witness the peculiar rationalizations that motivated the crime, the
larceny, and the paranoid self-seeking that forms the conditions for a bitterly
ironic end for most of the involved.It was, in essence, of flawed characters who have made their various bargains with the devil attempting to escape their with the commision , they assume, of one virtuous act, the revelation of truth. No one, though, escapes their fate, and those who don't die find no redemption. It's a classic Tragic form, and TD2,
provided an apt version of a thriller
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