2001: a space odyssey

After many (many years) of refusing to see 2001: A Space Odyssey, solely because of my dad's persistance and my sick sense of humor, I finally watched it... and loved it. A lot more than I thought I would, actually -- but don't tell my father. I couldn't bare to hear the "I was right yet AGAIN, maybe you should listen to me more often" speech again. (Because he really is right every time. Prolonging expectations are just more entertaining for me.)

Kubrick: How could we possibly appreciate the Mona Lisa if Leonardo had written at the bottom of the canvas: "The lady is smiling because she is hiding a secret from her lover." This would shackle the viewer to reality, and I don't want this to happen to 2001.

The following fan letters come from the book The Making of Kubrick's 2001, edited by Jerome Agel. It has a 96-page photo insert and some of the mosts interesting insights into the film.

A disgruntled moviegoer: I am enclosing my four ticket stubs. I would like my money returned, if for no other reason than as an apology for boring the life out of my family and myself for three hours. When will you learn what the public, that you are always screaming about, has known for years. You cannot cover up mediocrity with obscurity. P.S. The tickets were $2.50 each.

A young fan: It was, in short, the best movie I have ever seen. Even though I am considered bright, I could not understand the last part of the movie. Someday when I am older, I hope to get involved in the field of astronautics. Now, I am 13. In 2001, I will be 46 years old. For the time being, could you send me something explaining the end of the movie! P.S. I did not mean to brag about being bright in the second sentence.

Another fan: I know that we are capable of conceiving beyond our world. Maybe we are afraid to and need the security of making everything relate to our small world and small capabilities. I think this shows in our inventions throughout history; for instance, to invent the calendar and the clock when there is no time. Your movie has given me many moments which I seek out in my life -- moments of feeling alive. After you movie, one thought kept coming back into my mind. It is one that I have had many times but which seemed more clear than ever now; how many times must I be born to realize what I am?

(My favorite.)
Best fan ever: I would not be at all afraid to state that with 2001 you may have quite possibly saved any number of spiritual and physical lives. For it is wthin the power of a film such as yours to give people a reason to go on living -- to give them the courage to go on living. For 2001 implies much more than just an artistic revelation. On a philosophical level, it implies that if man is capable of this, he is capable of anything -- anything rational and heroic and florious and good. Think of how many men and women might very possibly thrust off the shackles of monotonous stagnation of their day-to-day existence -- how many might strive to reach goals they thought impossible before -- how many might find elation and pleasure hitherto denied them by their own lack of courage. How can man now be content to consider the trivial and mundane, when you have shown a world full of stars, a world beyond the infinite?

(Kubrick responded: Your letter was overwhelming. What can I say in reply?)

guns don't kill people

Eddie Izzard, Dress to Kill

deathstar canteen

But there must've been a Death Star canteen, yeah? There must've been a cafeteria downstairs, in between battles, where Darth Vader could just chill and go down:

Darth Vader: I will have the penne all'arrabiata.
Canteen Worker: You'll need a tray.
Darth Vader: Do you know who I am?
Canteen Worker: Do you know who I am?
Darth Vader: This is not a game of who the fuck are you. For I am Vader, Darth Vader, Lord Vader. I can kill you with a single thought.
Canteen Worker: Well, you'll still need a tray.
Darth Vader: No, I will not need a tray. I do not need a tray to kill you. I can kill you without a tray, with the power of the Force, which is strong within me. Even though I could kill you with a tray if I so wished. For I would hack at your neck with the thin bit until the blood flowed across the canteen floor.
Canteen Worker: No, the food is hot. You'll need a tray to put the food on.
Darth Vader: Oh, I see the food is hot. I'm sorry. I did not realize. Ha ha ha ha … oh … tray for the … yes. I thought you were challenging me for the fight to the death.
Canteen Worker: A fight to the death? This a canteen, I work here.
Darth Vader: Yes, but I am Vader. I am Lord Vader? Everyone challenges me to a fight to the death. Lord Vader? Darth Vader, I'm Darth Vader. Sir Lord Vader? Sir Lord Darth Vader? Lord Darth Sir Lord, Lord Vader of Cheem? Sir Lord Baron Von Vader Ham? The Death Star. I run the Death Star.
Canteen Worker: What's the Death Star?
Darth Vader: This is the Death Star! You're in the Death Star! I run this star!
Canteen Worker: This is a star?
Darth Vader: This is a fucking star! I run it! I'm your boss.
Canteen Worker: You're Mr. Stevens?
Darth Vader: No, I'm … who is Mr. Stevens?
Canteen Worker: He's Head of Catering.
Darth Vader: I'm not Head of Catering! I am Vader, I can kill catering with a thought.
Canteen Worker: Wha'?
Darth Vader: I can kill you all! I can kill me with a thought! Just … fine, I'll get a tray! Fuck it! This one's wet, and this one's wet and this one's wet. This one is wet. This one is wet. This one is wet. This one is wet. This one is wet. This one is wet. This one is wet. This one is wet. Did you dry these in a rainforest? Why, with the power of the Death Star do we not have a tray that is fucking dry? I do not … no, no, no! I was here first!
Other guy: You have to form a queue if you want food. Can I have, uh … ooo, penne all'arrabiata. That'd be very nice.
Darth Vader: No, no, no! Do you know who I am?
Other guy: That's Jeff Vader that is!
Darth Vader: I am not Jeff Vader, I am Darth Vader.
Other guy: What? Jeff Vader runs the Death Star?
Darth Vader: No, Jeff … no, I run the Death Star.
Other guy: You Jeff Vader?
Darth Vader: No, I'm Darth Vader.
Other guy: Are you his brother? Could you get his autograph?
Darth Vader: I can't get his … no, I'm Jeff … all right, I'm Jeff Vader! I'm Jeff Vader!
Other guy: Could I have your autograph?
Darth Vader: No, fuck off or I'll kill you with a tray! Give me penne all'arrabiata or you shall die! And you and everyone in this canteen! Death by tray it shall be!
Canteen Worker: Do you want peas with that?
Darth Vader: Peas! You don't have peas! You can't put in right in … you can't put …it doesn't work with penne! Unless you push 'em up the penne tubes and then it'd be weird! Oh, all right! Put some peas in.

Eddie Izzard, Circle

hot fuzz

Hot Fuzz Trailer
"Haven't you ever taken a shortcut before?"

london

Open As Usual, most signs screamed, loud letters climbing across the walls of both small businesses and big corporations. Open Like Always, others declared. They weren’t signs of defiance or arrogance. They were signs of honor and respect.

The bombings occurred in the early morning of July 7, and I was still in bed, sleeping soundly, at 8:50am when a train exploded in Russell Square Station, just two blocks behind my flat. I woke up to the sound of silence – it was a rare event in this city – and I heard the dejected news through my bedroom door. Bombings occurred on over three train lines and two buses, and by 4pm, 37 people were reported to be dead.

On July 8, I expected a suspended world. I anticipated fear and silence, paranoia and sorrow. I couldn’t have been more wrong. I awoke, as usual, like always, to the bustling sound of black cabs, double deckers, and chatty businessmen heading towards the tube stations. Knowing that I could not withstand the confines of my flat, I ventured out into the city, unaware of the sights I would see.

I passed Hyde Park, where vibrant green trees were decorated with a blanket of dedicated flowers beneath. I saw children playing with their dogs, couples enjoying a picnic, and introverts reading books in the shade. I passed by Trafalgar Square, where tourists and locals continued to enjoy the architecture of St. Martin in the Fields and the refreshing mist that sprang from the enormous water fountains. I then ate lunch at my favorite deli, whose name escapes me but was managed by an Italian named Alessandro, and I saw the sign for the first time. Open As Usual. Three simple words that meant so much more.

Exactly one week later, I was heading towards an afternoon to be spent at the Courtald Gallery when everything stopped. The cars. The people. The conversations. For two whole minutes, I watched the city pay their respects to the dead. I stood there in awe, watching strangers whose hearts were set to the same clock as mine, and I finally understood where I was – I was home. After those two minutes, everyone went back to work, to their families, to their friends. We all moved on, determined to be Open Like Always.

audrey

postsecret: iii

postsecret

casablanca

Ilsa: Play it once, Sam. For old times' sake.
Sam: [lying] I don't know what you mean, Miss Ilsa.
Ilsa: Play it, Sam. Play "As Time Goes By."
Sam: [lying] Oh, I can't remember it, Miss Ilsa. I'm a little rusty on it.
Ilsa: I'll hum it for you. Da-dy-da-dy-da-dum, da-dy-da-dee-da-dum...
[Sam begins playing]
Ilsa: Sing it, Sam.
Sam: [singing] You must remember this, a kiss is still a kiss, a sigh is just a sigh. The fundamental things apply, as time goes by. And when two lovers woo, they still say, "I love you." On that you can rely, no matter what the future brings-...
Rick: [rushing up] Sam, I thought I told you never to play--

Captain Renault: What in heaven's name brought you to Casablanca?
Rick: My health. I came to Casablanca for the waters.
Captain Renault: The waters? What waters? We're in the desert.
Rick: I was misinformed.

Rick: Of all the gin joints, in all the towns, in all the world, she had to walk into mine.

Rick: Now, you've got to listen to me! You have any idea what you'd have to look forward to if you stayed here? Nine chances out of ten, we'd both wind up in a concentration camp. Isn't that true, Louie?
Captain Renault: I'm afraid Major Strasser would insist.
Ilsa: You're saying this only to make me go.
Rick: I'm saying it because it's true. Inside of us, we both know you belong with Victor. You're part of his work, the thing that keeps him going. If that plane leaves the ground and you're not with him, you'll regret it. Maybe not today. Maybe not tomorrow, but soon and for the rest of your life.
Ilsa: But what about us?
Rick: We'll always have Paris. We didn't have, we, we lost it until you came to Casablanca. We got it back last night.
Ilsa: When I said I would never leave you.
Rick: And you never will. But I've got a job to do, too. Where I'm going, you can't follow. What I've got to do, you can't be any part of. Ilsa, I'm no good at being noble, but it doesn't take much to see that the problems of three little people don't amount to a hill of beans in this crazy world. Someday you'll understand that. Now, now... Here's looking at you kid.

they call me naughty lola

My finger on the pulse of culture, my ear to the ground of philosophy, my hip in the medical waste bin of Glasgow Royal Infirmary. 14% plastic and counting -- geriatric brainiac and compulsive NHS malingering fool (M, 81), looking for richer, older sex-starved woman on the brink of death to exploit and ruin every replacement operation I've had since 1974. Box no. 7648 (quickly, the clock's ticking, and so is this pacemaker).

Sinister-looking man with a face that only a mother would love: think of an ageing Portillo with a beard and you have my better-looking twin. Sweetie at heart, though. Nice conversation, great for dimly-lit romantic meals. Better in those Welsh villages where the electricity supply can't be guaranteed. Charitable women to 50 appreciated. Box no. 0364.

Bald, short, fat and ugly male, 53, seeks short-sighted woman with tremendous sexual appetite. Box no. 9612.

You're a brunette, 6', long legs, 25-30, intelligent, articulate and drop-dead gorgeous. I, on the other hand, am 4'10, have the looks of Herve Villechaize and carry an odour of wheat. No returns and no refunds at box no. 3321.

Excerpts from the book They Call Me Naughty Lola: The "London Review of Books" Personal Ads -- a Reader.

i died for beauty

I died for beauty, but was scarce
Adjusted in the tomb,
When one who died for truth was lain
In an adjoining room.

He questioned softly why I failed?
“For beauty,” I replied.
“And I for truth -- the two are one;
We brethren are,” he said.

And so, as kinsmen met at night,
We talked between the rooms,
Until the moss had reached our lips,
And covered up our names.

Emily Dickinson

Painting entitled Flaming June
by Lord Frederic Leighton

can't shut me up, can't dumb me down

I'm a modern man. A man for the millenium. Digital and smoke free. A diversified multicultural postmodern deconstructionist, politically, anatomically, and ecologically incorrect. I've been uplinked and downloaded, I've been inputted and outsourced. I know the upside of downsizing I know the downside of upgrading. I'm a high tech lo-life. A cutting-edge, state-of-the-art, bi-coastal multitasker and I can give you a gigabyte in a nanosecond. I'm new wave but I'm old school and my inner child is outward bound. I'm a hotwired, heatseaking, warmhearted cool customer, voice activated and biodegradable. I interface with my database and my database is in cyberspace, so I'm interactive, I'm hyperactive, and from time to time I'm radioactive. Behind the eight ball, ahead of the curve, riding the wave, dodging the bullet, and pushing the envelope. I'm on point, on task, on message, and off drugs. I got no need for coke and speed. I got no urge to binge and purge. I'm in the moment, on the edge, over the top, but under the radar. A high concept, low profile, medium range ballistic missionary. A streetwise smartbomb. A top-gun bottom feeder. I wear power ties; I tell power lies; I take power naps; I take victory laps. I'm a totally ongoing bigfoot, slamdunk rain maker with a pro-active outreach, a raging workaholic, a working rage-a-holic, out of rehab and in denial. I got a personal trainer, a personal shopper, a personal assistant, and a personal angenda. You can't shut me up, you can't dumb me down, cause I'm tireless and I'm wireless. I'm an alpha-male on beta-blockers. I'm a non-believer and an overacheiver, laid-back but fashion foward, up front, down home, low rent, high mantinence, supersize, long lasting, high definition, fast acting, oven ready, and built to last. I'm a hands on, footloose, knee-jerk headcase, prematurely postraumatic, and I have a love child who sends me hate mail. But I'm feeling; I'm caring; I'm healing; I'm sharing; a supportive, bonding, nurturing, primary caregiver. My output is down, but my income is up. I take a short position on the long bond and my revenue stream has its own cash flow. I read junk-mail; I eat junk food; I buy junk bonds; I watch trash sports. I'm gender specific, captial intensive, user friendly, and lactose intolerant. I like rough sex; I like tough love; I use the f-word in my email, and the software on my hard drive is hardcore; no soft porn. I bought a microwave at a minimall; I bought a minivan at a megastore. I eat fast food in the slow lane. I'm toll free, bite size, ready to wear, and I come in all sizes; a fully equipped, factory authorized, hospital tested, clinically proven, scientifically formulated medical miracle. I've been pre-washed, pre-cooked, pre-heated, pre-screened, pre-approved, pre-packaged, post-dated, freeze-dried, double wrapped, vacuum packed, and I have an unlimited broadband capacity. I'm a rude dude but I'm the real deal, lean and mean, cocked, locked, and ready to rock; rough, tough, and hard to bluff. I take it slow; I go with the flow; I ride with the tide; I got glide in my stride; driving and moving, sailing and spinning, jiving and grooving, wailing and winning. I don't snooze, so I don't lose. I keep the pedal to the metal and the rubber on the road. I party hardy and lunchtime is crunchtime. I'm hanging in, there ain't no doubt, and I'm hanging tough, over and out.

George Carlin, from his television show Life is Worth Losing
Quite possibly the greatest thing I've ever heard.

chant d’oiseau cliffs

“Mom, why do you only take pictures of buildings?”
“Because they’re beautiful.”
“Why?”
“Because they never age. They’re timeless.”
“What’s your favorite building?”
“I don’t know. I’m particularly fond of Lloyd’s of London.”
“Why?”
“Because it’s built inside out!”
“Why?”
“Because the architect wanted to be creative and different.”
“Why?”
There was a pause, and then she smiled softly.
“Because why would anyone want to be the same?”
“If heaven were a building, would it be Lloyd’s of London?”
“I don’t know. Maybe. I’m sure some people would think so.”
“And you?”
“I think heaven would be a lot like St. Peter’s Cathedral.”
“Oh.”
“What’s wrong with that?”
“You chose a church.”
“What’s wrong with choosing a church?”
“Churches aren’t supposed to BE heaven. They’re supposed to make you want to GO to heaven.”
“So what building would you choose, then?”
“That’s a silly question.”
“Why?”
“Because heaven wouldn’t be a building.” She paused before she added, “But if it were, I would hope that it would be a lighthouse so I can always see the water.”
At this, Elizabeth Waterhouse began to cry, and Cassandra didn’t understand why.

S.S. Howard

for sale

"For sale: baby shoes, never worn."

A six-word short story by Ernest Hemingway,
said to have called it his best work.

Art by Bert Beirne

buddhist parable

A woman lost her only son and this caused her great pain and she carried the body of her son around the village looking for someone who had a potion to bring him back to life. Someone told her that Buddha has such a potion. She found Buddha at his retreat and asked him if he had such a potion. He said that yes he does. She asked if there was any herbs she could collect to aid in it's making. Buddha said that he needed some mustard seeds. She said she would collect some mustard seeds. As she was leaving, Buddha said the seeds need to come from a household that has never known death. The woman said she would find these seeds. Every home she visited had the seeds to give her, but every home had experienced death at one time. In one a mother, in another a daughter, in another a servant, and in another a husband. Finally the woman realized that no one goes through life without experiencing the pain of death. At this time she let them take the body of her son and bury him. She returned to Buddha to thank him for reminding her of this simple fact. Buddha said the realization that everyone experiences the pain of death did not ease the pain of her loss, it eased the suffering of her holding on.

extras

Maggie: [Trying to persuade Andy to ask Ross Kemp for a line] Just talk to him. Tell him you loved him in Eastenders, Spandau Ballet...
Andy: He wasn't in Spandau Ballet. You're thinking of Martin Kemp.
Maggie: Aren't they brothers?
Andy: In Spandau Ballet it's Martin and Gary Kemp.
Maggie: So who's this one?
Andy: Ross Kemp.
Maggie: Who's his brother?
Andy: I... I don't know if he's got a brother.
Maggie: Yes, he has, he has. The bald one, looks just like him, works in the Queen Vic.
Andy: Phil Mitchell?
Maggie: Yes.
Andy: Well, they're brothers on the show but they're not brothers in real life.
Maggie: Yes, they are! They're the Mitchell brothers.
Andy: [Getting exasperated] What do you mean the Mitchell brothers? You know his name's Ross Kemp!
[Maggie is still looking very puzzled]
Andy: What bit's confusing you?
Maggie: [After a pause, mumbles] They're brothers.
Andy: "They're brothers".
[An extra walks by wearing a futuristic sci-fi costume]
Andy: Is that confusing you too? Do you think we've landed in the future?
Maggie: Shut your face!

An excerpt from Ricky Gervais's highly entertaining BBC show, Extras.

who am i

Ask yourself: Who am I?

Invariably, the internal answer will be autobiographical -- an identity based on the past. It will be a description of a continuity from childhood through adolescence to adulthood which is all past memories and no longer exists. Memory is the mirror and we live on the wrong side. Seldom will anyone answer the question of Who am I? with: I appear to be the process of reading this page.

Yatri

Art by the British street artist, Banksy.

i sit and look out

I sit and look out upon all the sorrows of the world, and upon all oppression and shame;
I hear secret convulsive sobs from young men, at anguish with themselves, remorseful after deeds done;
I see, in low life, the mother misused by her children, dying, neglected, gaunt, desperate;
I see the wife misused by her husband -- I see the treacherous seducer of young women;
I mark the ranklings of jealousy and unrequited love, attempted to be hid -- I see these sights on the earth;
I see the workings of battle, pestilence, tyranny--I see martyrs and prisoners;
I observe a famine at sea -- I observe the sailors casting lots who shall be kill'd, to preserve the lives of the rest;
I observe the slights and degradations cast by arrogant persons upon laborers, the poor, and upon negroes, and the like;
All these -- all the meanness and agony without end, I sitting, look out upon,
See, hear, and am silent.

Walt Whitman, I Sit and Look Out