Leaning on the Everlasting Arms
Ah, little lad, you're starin' at my fingers. Would you like me to tell you the little story of right hand, left hand? The story of good and evil? H-A-T-E. It was with this left hand that old brother Cain struck the blow that laid his brother low. L-O-V-E. You see these fingers, dear hearts? These fingers has veins that run straight to the soul of man - the right hand, friends, the hand of love. Now watch and I'll show you the story of life. These fingers, dear hearts, is always a-warrin' and a-tuggin', one agin the other. Now, watch 'em. Ol' brother left hand. Left hand, HATE's, a-fightin'. And it looks like LOVE's a goner. But wait a minute, wait a minute! Hot dog! LOVE's a winnin'. Yes, sirree. It's LOVE that won and ol' left hand HATE is down for the count.
Pitching is the one part of this whole freelance writing gig that I've never been comfortable with. I guess it's the same in any profession, but while hunting for ideas I'm able to bring to an editor with at least as much pride and hope as my cat brings me the dish sponge, procrastination has brought some nice discoveries.
I've somehow managed to miss Night of the Hunter in all of my life until now, but it made its way onto the television last night while I was struggling for inspiration and the ability to stay awake. It's great when you have that feeling of discovering a real cinema masterpiece that's eluded you until now--I remember the same thing with Sunrise earlier this year. I've never truly got Robert Mitchum before, even with Cape Fear, but his borderline paedophile psychopathic murderous screaming ex-con preacher turn in this film is one of the creepiest things I've ever seen. Hate on one hand, love on the other. Just let him tell you the story...
It is a strange film about faith and how the righteous shall shine beyond the false words of the evil. Amidst its eerie psycodrama and its murky southern gothica, this strange expressionist work (the only film ever to be directed by the great Charles Laughton) is as striking to look at as any of the great films of Welles or Griffiths, and has lodged at least a few scenes into my more highbrow nightmares for good. Particularly that strange trip down the river with all the animals. Apocalypse Now, only with bunnies.
Likewise, I'd never heard of Santiago Alvarez until the weekend, when I caught Now!, one of the most extraordinarily powerful pieces of agit-prop cinema I have ever seen. And it's only five minutes long. I plan to find out much more about this angry Cuban and report back.
JG Ballard has pulled off several cold and clinical postmodern tricks in his career, but this one takes the cake. My most favourite writer of contemporary nihilism and industrial grump manages to argue critical worth to the various branches of C.S.I.. Really.
The real crime the C.S.I. team is investigating, weighing every tear, every drop of blood, every smear of semen, is the crime of being alive. I fear that we watch, entranced, because we feel an almost holy pity for ourselves and the oblivion patiently waiting for us.
Yesterday, I made a great discovery in the radio station CD racks while trying to seem knowledgeable: Malcolm Middleton, the less boozy half of Arab Strap, as bleak and irredeemably scottish as his mother band, only with a little more friendliness to our friend Guitar, and even that guy we met one time called Beautiful Pop Hook. I'm not feeling particularly rock-writerly tonight, so Drowned In Sound can do the legwork and describe for you just how Into the Woods hides the soul of a brutally tortured soul behind its melodies. One of the great things about having access to a CD library stacked with new releases - you can get suckered in by the artwork and find some real gems. Of course, every time you think you've found something, you know there are thousands of cooler than you obscurists out there listening and muttering about how they've had it on import for months, and they got it on Soulseek before it was even recorded.
And. Oh. My. God. Twentysomethings, we all must rejoice. And crack out the Subbuteo sets.
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