Monday, September 4, 2017
One of the reasons “Twin Peaks” is so persistently seductive is because it finds a way to inhabit American emptiness in a way few others can approach. Emptiness is a part of this country’s cultural heritage; driving through America, in “Twin Peaks,” feels as isolated and hair-raising as it might on a long stretch of two-lane highway through remote Texas. The gas station in the final episode is shrouded with darkness that looks ready to close in at a moment’s notice. Lynch’s art, at least part of it, injects meaning behind moments that would otherwise be stunning for their artifice. It’s like a reverse camp, and it’s especially apparent for any emphasis on Lee, who so thoroughly embodies his “Twin Peaks” aesthetic. The final hour of “Twin Peaks: The Return felt like it was the final stroke cutting through a shroud of illusion about America that the show has explored since the first episode. Underneath the artifice — the suggestions made by this soap operatic melodrama — is that endless, echoing scream.
much like with the first 2hrs of this experience, i sat with my swirling thoughts and feelings for two days before attempting to articulate my reaction to the final two hours.
what i loved about this 18 hour fever-film is innumerable to list, but i can say what i found most satisfying was how it existed as a casual affront to the entitlements of fandom. not adversarial towards all those demands, but insouciant to their hems and haws. the fan-fiction moments were expertly woven into the greater fabric of the universe as a fruitless attempt to disrupt and derail their inevitable consumption by the tar-blooded world eaters of encroaching psychological/biological armageddon .
Instead of a crowd-pleasing final curtain we were gifted with a meditative treatise on the ambient collapse left behind in the chasing of nostalgic correction. pristine memories become increasingly weathered from holding back their greasy collage-works of infinite nightmare, blood smeared across our dead faces until malignant orbs of cancerous wanting violently propel from a crowning postmortem incision, life but a dream that's been had by the non-existent.
Monday, August 28, 2017
Thursday, August 17, 2017
woke up this morning with a head full of garbage after last night's primal scream group therapy session, its nostalgic underpinnings seemed designed less to reassure the constituents than to cautiously mend the wounded ego of a deeply unpleasant grand-toddler, whose limited exposure to a negative conditioning / positive reinforcement behavioral dichotomy has left his mental faculties in a state not dissimilar from his approval ratings; totally fucking cratered. anywaaaaaaay;
remember that scene in Batman Returns when the Caped Crusader is closing in on the Penguin's lair and the Penguin starts looking to his henchpeople and they all start slinking away so they don't get their clown-asses handed to them by a violent superhero in a missle-boat?
that's what we're seeing here.
i'm more than exhausted by the sneering malice of this sentient spite-diaper who has yet to out-learn grade school cruelties. this singularly unremarkable, hygiene-allergic cold sore of a man-boy who contributes nothing to the zeitgeist and appeals only to the those with the comedic sensibilities and intellectual/emotional capacities of over-sheltered, mean-spirited seventh graders who endlessly hurl increasingly nonsensical insults at one another during gym class.
it's beyond the pale.
it's stupid, vicious, and deadening.
this isn't arch-level schadenfreude, it's a two-way suicide watch.
part of me still wants to believe this all some kind of twisted performance art; someone in orange-face and a fat suit who has crafted an invariably ugly alter-ego fashioned in the deed of Andy Kaufman's Tony Clifton, the boorishly tone-deaf lounge act swapped out for an overcommitted internet troll persona. Sam Hyde on global scale.
i don't know if this will end... all i know is i'm fucking done.
Tuesday, August 15, 2017
The end of the alt-right
how many of these racist trolls are committed to the real-life violence and potential state repression that the movement’s goals will now summon forth? The standard online shtick for politically serious members of the alt-right has been to flirt with Nazism but then to laugh at anyone who took these gestures at face value. But in the wake of James Alex Fields’ alleged terrorist assault in Charlottesville, which claimed the life of antifa protestor Heather Heyer, ironic dodges are foreclosed to the alt-right. In addition to Fields’ usage of a car as a deadly weapon—a tactic borrowed, ironically enough, from ISIS sympathizers in Europe—the show of fascist strength in Charlottesville made it abundantly clear that the most vocal and committed leaders of the movement are not basement-dwelling geeks but heavily armed militiamen. This was no shambolic gathering of weedy LARPers or neckbeards with silly grins and Pepe signs but a uniformed procession of politically serious white nationalists prepared for violence and employing deadly serious chants of “blood and soil” and “you will not replace us.”
- Angela Nagle