Eneathedevil

Wow, what a list of headlines! Of course, if he really had to pick a half flop in Lynch, he could have chosen Blue Velvet, which in my opinion has moments of absolute banality (and MacLachlan and Dern seem to pay the price of still being too green in the presence of a great Hopkins).

Ah! Here it is, the return of Almo to his congenial surrealist pastiches with a comedic-grotesque backdrop, where the interest in a subject that is nothing short of sheepish serves as a pretext for crafting a writing rich in linguistic preciosities and delightful wordplay. Both those who applaud and those who are indignant are right: we cannot (spit) on the sensitivity of what meets our taste. I belong to the former faction, as Deb has always gladly hosted humorous reviews on musically questionable subjects, or the disgusting analysis by @[MaledettaPrimavera] on Filth by Waco Jesus wouldn’t have any reason to be here and to be the masterpiece it is. The point here, rather, is that the flamboyant reviewer, much like a Rossini who spends his entire life trying to reach the heights of his magnificent "Barber" without succeeding, writes a piece that fails to replicate the miracle of that masterpiece that was the review of Cristina D'Avena, where there was a continuous popping of rhetorical figures and effective puns worthy of a mystical cross between Marinetti and Carmelo Bene with a touch of Pippo Franco. Yes, there are alliterations here too, but amid unexamined scrotums and touches of testicles, there’s a sense that the puns are subservient to the narrative and not vice versa, showing a certain forcing of the mechanism. And then the ending should perhaps pay tribute to Panella from "Equivoci amici"? Here too, the comparison would require a toll from the reviewer. In short, in light of the davenian brilliance that casts its shadow cone over the writing and, ultimately, because of that "infondo" there that escaped the attention of most, I take advantage of the one-of-a-kind situation presented to slip into the opening left by Almo to deny it the highest rating and await the review of volume 2. Ah, and Biagio Antonacci makes me sick from every sweating pore.

I remember the one by Welles seen many years ago, with a luck-based production where that great son of a good woman Orson made the costumes himself and spent next to nothing to create the sets for a film of incredible aesthetic and emotional impact (nothing new under the sun if we think we are facing the greatest director in the history of Hollywood). Although I consider any work centered on Macbeth always not easy to digest, I would truly be curious to see how Coen conceived his adaptation and what exquisitely Coen elements – referring to what the two brothers have produced together in over twenty years – Joel brought along with him. Great debut for the reviewer, anyway.

I absolutely loved the film mainly for Bardem's abject mask, who said of this movie that he could never have imagined playing a villain role given his past as an irresistible charm in romantic comedies. The Coens' intuition is brilliant, just as it is for Thornton in the mediocre Bob Crane of "The Man Who Wasn't There," the ragtag duo of Clooney and Turturro in "O Brother, Where Art Thou?" and, let me tell you, Bridges in "The Big Lebowski." And then Chigurh has a deep sympathy from me because every now and then, my hair takes on his same hairstyle just before the inevitable trim from my personal butcher, who also sells grooming products for dogs.
Joe's reading is doctrinal and has philosophical nuances: I resonate with it entirely and would like to take a moment to mention the excellent Woody Harrelson, who portrays the former officer Carson Wells in perfect harmony, like Chigurh, with the Kafkaesque sense of inevitability of fate that determines the lives of men.

Didactic and probably not "extraordinary" like the best things written by Almo here on Deb, this long hagiography certainly has the merit of narrating with extreme narrative clarity the work of Nyro, especially from the perspective of her "behind-the-scenes" contributions. Having to take the place of @[GrammarNazi], who at this hour will be picking the pubic hairs scattered on the shower tray, I would dare to point out an inaccurate use of the verb "disconoscere," which in Italian does not have the exception of "ignorare," but only of "rinnegare" (incredible but true). As for Nyro, I’ll pass, as it was never in my wheelhouse.

I didn't mind at all in the face of the excellent performances by Villaggio, Bonacelli, and the cheerful group of children from "De Amicìs." Joe's review is as accurate and interesting as usual: I would just add that Mario Bianco, the chubby Nicola from the film, can be found at the Quadrilatero in Turin in his "Cornetti Night," where he sells pastries and freshly made croissants to the patrons of the unmissable Savoy nightlife.

"Untrue" one of the most important albums of the 2000s: there’s no debate about that. I still need to listen to this. Well done, Zione.

Damn, where did you fish these out from? There might be a bit of overselling, but from the first listens, they don't seem bad at all. Great find.

First of all, I would like to assert with firm pride that I couldn't care less about the whole Matrix saga. I saw a random one in the cinema, and it wasn't even the first, so I hardly understood anything and since then I haven't really felt like diving deeper into the others. I’m stepping in just to say that I really liked Joe's review for its "personal" touch, which his writings usually lack, so five paccheri and a resounding "me' cojoni" in support of any discussion focused on the intrinsic value of this or that chapter of the saga.

Here, the Palermo Pop Festival was one of those events capable of breaking down the imaginary iron curtain between the world of Italian pop music and that of the rock giants of the international scene: practically in the same years that Doors, Pink Floyd, and Zeppelin were rocking audiences around the globe, in Italy Little Tony and Ricchi e Poveri were dominating the charts. It’s incredible to think about, but they were exactly the same years, and it was no coincidence that in Palermo people awaited the arrival of Little Tony on stage with more fervor than that of Duke Ellington or Tony Iommi. The book surely highlighted this and other aspects, as noted by @[Catanga]'s positive review. Of course, there’s no end to the worst: if back then Palermo could at least boast of hosting two great artists like Giuni Russo and Rosa Balistreri (both participated in the Festival), now the big names dominating are the notorious ones from the dreadful Neapolitan neomelodic song scene (“Belluscone” by Maresco is really exegetical in this regard), a distressing sign of cultural impoverishment that even makes one lament the inability to nurture local talents.