Category: 2020

Selected Scenes: Walker

walker 4

A spoiler-heavy movie review and personal analysis.

1987 – Director: Alex Cox

I haven’t been fortunate enough to watch Alex Cox’s other populist films Sid & Nancy and Repo Man, but if Walker is anything to go by then I should be adding them to my list. He’s fallen off the radar since this – his last major studio production – but similar to other cinematic artists like Richard Stanley and Richard Rush who Hollywood execs refuse to work with (since some of us have integrity beyond a paycheck) they never really went away. Stanley just released his Lovecraft adaptation Color Out of Space; Rush is old AF but still working as a film professor (and I liked Color of Night, but I also like Jane March); and Cox seems to be pumping out independently-financed features whenever he can get the money, in addition to teaching. It’s a twofer.

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first response

A poem.

its a way to matter.
to show people you care
past your hard, judgmental stare.
never mind your hearts a flutter
and your stomach tense
and the first impression layered and dense.
humans are fragile
and we tend to crack.
bottle the air from a lifetime of breath
and a legacy wont outlive its trail.

//jf 7.11.2020

 

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the center of the world

A poem.

always sick
always in pain
they told you not to fret
as you hunched yourself over the oxygen tank.
“that lump on your chest is worth its weight in gold.”
you play with your breasts.
those photos online impressed your friends.
days spill over to weeks on end.
you don’t know how many more of your lies you can spin.

//jf 7.8.2020

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Selected Scenes: The Angels’ Melancholia

A spoiler-heavy multi-scene film analysis & review.

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Hmm. Another shot of a woman peeing. She pees standing up at a sit-down toilet, pees on the floor, and pees on a dead guy’s face. Sometimes she poops, too: often at the same time as Number 1, lit sultrily by a bonfire where our protagonists are burning the disemboweled corpse of one of their own. Characters stick their fingers in each other’s holes and you are guaranteed a money-shot of their shit-stained fingers after, too. “Oh, well there’s that” I thought to myself as another disturbing image passed my view while I sat on my couch, high and alone at 10 PM on my Friday night.

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don’t lose my number

A poem.

i prowl methodically,
judicious in my seeing
but there has to be days when you just let it go.
where you just be.
and you communicate
in that old imitable way that our youth betrays.

i hope youre okay
and that your hair still hangs,
with eyes that stare through the bangs.
the tears would well up in your face
when we talked about how we loved
betrothed and entwined
through our own slippery grasp of experience combined.

just the slightest bit of skin is like a beacon,
beckoning for reason.
so when the unreasonable becomes your cure,
please dont lose my number.

//jf 6.13.2020

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