Bartleboom

DeRank : 35,89
DeAge™ : 7610 days • Here since 9 august 2005
Sleater-Kinney No Cities to Love
Voto:
Azzoluccio, I'm always fascinated by your ability to piss everyone off using just a keyboard and an internet connection. Almost as intrigued as I am by my ability to make every woman in the room drip simply by swinging my right testicle in front of her face. Please, let's go see a concert, as we youthfully loaf around pretending to be disillusioned old farts and looking for a fight with the teenage slackers who have more tattoos than years of contributions paid.
Alex De Lemaypal Piccola Peste crepa.  Brutto Rompicoglioni !
Voto:
Service communication (which I guess you won’t even have time to read, but whatever...): this empty page and the other one at home will be deleted by me. Not because they are empty. But due to the complete lack of originality from the authors, who saw that the Motorhead one was successful, so they did it too. No. That’s not how it works. Bye.
Motörhead Bad Magic
Voto:
You said it all...
Iron Maiden Speed of Light
Voto:
I'm sorry, but I can't access external links or content from YouTube. However, if you provide me with the text you'd like translated, I'd be happy to help!
Fightstar Grand Unification
Voto:
Intrigued by the 5 stars, I went to check them out on YouTube (strangely, this album isn't on Spotify…). Forgive me, dear, but I really struggle to share your judgment and enthusiasm. To me, they seemed like one of the usual alternative bands that pop up on rock music channels, with a skilled drummer and a very pronounced melodic/emotional component. I personally find the genre as appealing as pistachio meringues, but I understand it might be enjoyable for others. It’s worth mentioning that this is an album from almost 10 years ago, so maybe it sounded more original back then, I don’t know. Anyway, the review is good. Bye bye.
Damien Chazelle Whiplash
Voto:
No. The point is not the protagonist's victory over his own limits. If I wrote that, it's wrong and, in any case, it's not what I meant. The point is obsession and alienation. Rocky wants to be the symbol, the model of an entire "social process" not so much of revenge, but - in a more positive way - of redemption. Rocky does not deny his origins, but transforms them into a springboard, into a catalyst that makes his rise even more epic and glorious. Rocky does not hate his opponent and even takes on as his manager someone who took his locker away. His growth is not individual: on his path to glory, he literally "drags" along other characters who, almost by reflected light, experience the same beneficial effects (e.g., Adriana, who starts off as someone who can't get laid and, by the end, well, you might give her a little slap in the face with a shopping bag). On the contrary, Andrew seems to be the prototype of the old-school debaser: he's a fucking obsessive maniac, convinced that the rest of the world doesn’t understand and can't understand a damn thing about life because they aren't as obsessive as he is (how can you claim to listen to music if you don't have the entire discography of GYBE on blood-red pigeon vinyl?!?!?!?). His is not just an individual journey, but indeed a journey of progressive isolation. He is an alienated person, not carrying any demands other than becoming "the best": like Rocky, he yearns for "Glory," but his glory is sick, distorted, arrogant, and petty.
Lars von Trier Melancholia
Voto:
For the roughly 10 seconds when Kirsten Dunst’s beautiful butt is on display, the film is undeniably a 9.5/10. However, on the remaining 2 hours and more, I have a few more doubts. Personally, I've come to the conclusion that the film is one long metaphor in which the two planets symbolize the audience's balls that, after swelling to astronomical sizes, end up committing mutual suicide by colliding and exploding, obliterating all forms of life on the face of the earth. But I confess I haven't read Freud, so maybe I missed something...
Tame Impala Currents
Voto:
The review somewhat frustrated me, but it's definitely my fault. They've always pretty much sucked for me. Even Innerspacer or whatever it was called, I remember it being liked by almost everyone, and I kept listening to it in the hope that sooner or later I'd start to like it too, but nothing. I tried listening to this as well, but every time I hit play, the elastic of my underwear loosens a bit and I have to take them to my mother for a little fix. By the time I got to the second song, my balls are filled with helium and my dick starts talking like a metrosexual version of Robert Plant. Around the end of the fourth song, I start wondering why I never started smoking crack. By the end of the album, the split in my balls had grown to the size of the San Andreas fault. I guess I'll never really understand, but I mean never ever ever, why these guys have tens of millions of listens on Spotify and get played on Radio Deejay. But it's definitely my fault.
David Fincher Gone Girl
Voto:
Oh my goodness, what a bunch of nitpickers. As far as I'm concerned, for at least an hour and a half, it did its job. Then there's a pretty monstrous drop (like by three-quarters, the guy really seems to have gotten fed up with writing the script), but the overall result isn’t too bad. The Pyke with short hair is stunning (even though I really don't think that's her butt since we're the same age and to find someone my age with a butt like that, I'd have to build a time machine and go back about 15 years). Affleck is now a lost cause: he alternates films where he almost acts with others (like this one) where he’s nearly dead. It always seems like he accidentally ended up on set or lost a bad hand at poker, and in the shower scene, he shows off a physique of an accountant obsessed with complex carbohydrates, making you want to cover your eyes to avoid seeing the Horror... brrr...
Damien Chazelle Whiplash
Voto:
It is probably the most misunderstood film of the past season. Pretty much everywhere I've read about "the realization of the American dream" and "the Rocky of music." To me, it seems evident that there's no "dream" here at all. There's an obsession and two fucked-up maniacs who don't care about being hated and rejected by the world because they have their obsession. Except for the bar scene (which is so out of context and didactic that I'm increasingly convinced it was demanded by production to help the biggest dimwits in the audience, and, in any case, does more harm than good), there isn't a single shot in which music is joy, inspiration, feeling, liberation. It’s no coincidence that everyone always plays (except in the bar scene) from sheet music, and even the final improvisation is at the level of a bench press with a monstrous number of weights: it seems cathartic, but it's just alienating.