Greatest Movie of All Time of the Week DOUBLE FEATURE: Berlin: Symphony of a Metropolis! and Melody of the World!

Article theme: Speed of Life - David Bowie

Every list of "great films" features Soviet propaganda staple Man with a Movie Camera as its token silent, and it still makes for impressive viewing if, like an absolute pleb, you've never seen a city symphony before. Too bad it's a complete ripoff of experimental genius Walther Ruttmann's German kino Berlin: Die Sinfonie der Großstadt, which dropped two years earlier and deserves all the credit for the template. Not that Berlin was the first city symphony of the silent era: 1921 short Manhatta mixed documentary footage of Manhattan with lame poetry, and Berlin itself was profiled in 1925's Die Stadt der Millionen. But Ruttmann's opus ditched intertitles altogether and took on the structure of a day, building from isolated trains at empty stations through the bleary mornings of street sweepers and paper deliverers through the explosive, swirling nightlife of a decadent metropolis.

We even drop in to the Tiergarten where this elephant siestas in the afternoon.

While Man with a Movie Camera features laughably clunky propaganda of young comrades shooting at cutouts labelled things like "UNCLE FASHISM", Berlin spells out no agenda, passes no didactic judgement on any particular subject. You can read into it whatever bullshit has been programmed into you, or simply view it as a frozen moment in history. Ruttmann followed up Berlin with the more wildly ambitious Melody of the World, which likewise sequenced clips as movements in a symphony without taking any particular stance toward its multifarious subjects. Melody combines footage from as far afield as "Germany, Great Britain, France, Italy, the United States of America, Holland, Greece, India, Siam, China, Japan, Panama, and Cuba", and packs in some kino match cuts beside its startling, intriguing and exotic depictions of recreations, fashions, religions, customs, conflicts, architecture and languages around the globe.

In fact, the only wholesome messagerino to slap you hard in the face is an earnest lament against the ugliness of war. Ruttmann would later serve as a frontline combat photographer and died tragically in the worst war of all, whose only purpose was to give today's warpigs rhetorical cover for their murderous crimes.

If it's so trite and unsubtle, how come you still haven't got the message?

But violence is only presented as one frayed thread marring the complex tapestry of life. The juxtaposition of images of comparable routines and rituals from different countries highlights as many differences as similarities, and renders the familiar as novel as the alien. The whole thing only further demonstrates how much more profoundly the love of humanity and curiosity about the world runs in problematic shitlords than in shitlib NPCs for whom travel pays off in status points among their bougie social cliques, to say nothing of how many wildly distinctive authentic cultures were still practiced less than a century ago, even in Europe.

I have no idea who these guys are but their Wayne's World headbanging routine is on point.

What does this guy write on his umbrella, and why? I don't know, and no voiceover or intertitle interrupts the moment to explain it.

Ruttmann has fun with the Kuleshov effect, splicing blatantly unrelated clips together to make it seem like the Monopoly guy was watching Southeast Asian Lordi rock the stage. The Kuleshov effect is understood intuitively by all template meme poasters, but clearly Kuleshov was so convinced it was his master breakthrough that it bears his name to this day, which is endearingly like if I dubbed 2+2=4 "Pat Bastard's Formula" or some shit.

And if Berlin and Melody constitute the perfection of montage cinéma, Ruttmann's early experiments like Lichtspiel Opus I-IV confidently blazed trails down which still other poseurs strolled, taking credit that was never theirs. Sure, they sort of look like screensavers now, but Ruttmann was so far ahead of the curve that everyone from his contemporary absolute-film dickriders to Stan Brakhage belong in a footnote to his bio. Use this knowledge to them-apples would-be hipster blowhards in your next /film/ flame war.

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Stayvun Goes to Hell: The Final Friday!

Today is a very special day, when Jason's birthday actually falls on Friday the 13th. Unfortunately, I already recapped all the Friday the 13th movies, so here's a Stayvunpoast instead. No, this has nothing to do with Friday the 13th, but then neither did the Friday the 13th TV show, so consider this a 4D clever meta-commentary on that.

Happy birthday, Jason!!!1

Greatest Movie of All Time of the Week: The Sky's The Limit!

Article theme: War - Edwin Starr

"Psst - Fred, don't look now but I think you're featured on Pat Bastard's blðg again."

Not only the best and most overlooked Hollywood musical, but also the greatest accidentally anti-war movie of all time, it's too obvious a pun to call RKO's 1943 opus The Sky's The Limit Fred Astaire's shining hour (because that is the title of its main theme song), but I just did, so now what, bitch?

Actually, I'm assuming it was unintentional - even a kino factory like RKO wouldn't have dared commit a major star like Astaire to a based isolationist peacenik project at the height of the hostilities - but, just as every Hollywood attempt to marry pozzed messaging with actual artistic talent ends in divorce, so too this effort to keep proto-neocon support for the worst and most destructive war in history high undermines itself so hard you might just start to wonder.

Never forget that the same balding twinks who smirk media literately over the ebin propaganda satire in Starship Troopers also soyface into lockjaw over the Holy War Against Fashism based on this sort of farcically corny agitslop.

Astaire plays Fred (perhaps a clue that this complex character is closer to the real him than his typically airy persona), a fighter ace directed to perform a PR tour from coast to coast on his fleeting leave from the Pacific theatre who goes AWOL instead. The reason suggested is just boredom with his obligations and a yen for anonymity in a country that sees him as a hero for killing le ebil Japs, but this is surface level motivation. Disaffection with the whole war fits better and is supported by the scenes where Fred berates an aeronautical tycoon over the fitness of his aircraft for combat purposes at an obsequious works party in his honour. Through this point he's been a charming prankster, trying to lose himself in the escapism of civilian life, but in this scene his unloading becomes impassioned, showing-without-telling of psychological scars a studio propaganda flick of the period would otherwise have swept under the rug.

"Young man, what are you saying?"
"Look, personally I just prefer allies who don't sink our ships, send letter bombs to the White House, bomb our buildings and frame the Muslim Brotherhood for it, buy all our politicians and run pedo blackmail rings on our own soil."
"I simply won't hear such Woke Right Anti-Semolina-Pudding! Out I say!" - actual dialogue.

But the unravelling of Fred is gradual, a calendar in which he ticks off the days of his dwindling leave acting like those clocks in Rumble Fish, reminding us of the time elapsing before his freedom runs out, serving as a minimalistic motif to keep the rude awakening ahead in mind throughout the dream that plays out for us in between. First Fred goes looking for romance, and finds it by inventing photobombing and otherwise trolling Joan Leslie's qt3.14 photographer into falling for his impish charms.

Remember, boys: if she never looks at you like this...

...She'll never look at you like this.

It's a great romance of the cinéma and our foreknowledge of its doomed fate only makes it more poignant and none the less enjoyable as comic entertainment. Crack all the celluloid-closet jokes you will about our Fred, his chemistry with Leslie speaks of straightness you or I can but aspire to (well, you, anyway). Nor can we deny the sack required to smash his "One For My Baby And One For The Road" routine, in which the great danceman opened a leg shattering glass this way and that in an outpouring of sorrow as primal as it is precise. "Can't act" my taint, guy who wrote his infamous first screen test notes, this is a performance physical and emotional that mogs the talents of every pretentious thespian ever to don tights and also unrelatedly play Shakespeare.

On this b└og we stan a STRAIGHT king.

Greatest Movie of All Time of the Week: Demolition Man!

The lunch lady at St Pat's Primary School (1995, colourised).

Everyone loves Demolition Man, the greatest Stallonekino and one of the more entertaining movies of the 90s, or, indeed, ever. John Spartan (Stallone) is cryogenically frozen after a run-in with arch-criminal Simon Phoenix (Wesley Snipes). Flash forward to the far future of 2032 (we've still got time!) and Los Angeles is now transformed into the peaceful utopia of San Angeles. But is all as it seems? No!!!

"Somehow...Phoenix returned" - not actual dialogue.

For some mysterious reason Phoenix is sprung from Ice Block C and proceeds to wreak havoc on a world that has evolved beyond violence, and thus has no idea how to handle it. Snipes, utterly wasted in lame hero roles in other flicks, is gr8 fun as the homicidal psychopath finding to his bemusement and subsequent glee that this brave new world is his brave new oyster.

Basedly, the Hall of Violence has the same font as the menus in Diablo II.

Just watching Phoenix go around bullying the bewildered quokka-folk of San Angeles would be entertainment enough, but beaming uniformed waifu Lt. Huxley (lol) (Sandra Bullock, a revelation before everyone got tired of her bullshit five minutes later) has the bright idea to revive Stallone and sic him on the risen Phoenix.

Cute!

But also...

Hilarity ensues as Spartan must learn to navigate a world of feeble law enforcement, strange technologies and social taboos like an autist in the real world. The fish-out-of-water is a time-worn formula for entertainment and the pairing of Stallone's jaded old-school action hero and Bullock's wide-eyed retro-junkie also makes this technically a buddy-cop flick, meaning it relies as much on their chemistry as the gimmick.

Judging by this look and the snail trail she leaves behind her, we're in safe hands.

Much has been made of the social satire element, but, like most satires, it's as much a time-capsule today as Stallone's character is in the 2032 of the film's setting. Sure, the notion of an overly-polite high-trust society being immunocompromised against exploitation by violent criminal scumbags is as relevant now as it ever was, but the gentle lampooning of late-80s/early-90s political correctness culture makes the classic blunder of assuming good faith from its proponents. Flash forward to now and it's abundantly apparent that those who promulgate politically correct standards and shibboleths are as much cluster-B manipulators and psychopaths as Phoenix, and their risible goofiness is little more than a veneer for squalid self-advancement on the heads of those less slick of tongue and short of integrity. Though there are hints...

This dude dressed like if a Japanese chick became Pope might be significantly cast: he played the smooth-talking bureaucrat in Yookay TV's Yes, Minister.

Is the V-shaped SAPD badge design a subtle nod to INGSOC's curiously hash tag inclusive logo? You decide!

But whether you read surface-level whimsicality or deeper, darker subtext into it, this kino crushes as pure entertainment. WILL Spartan curtail Phoenix's rise? CAN he solve the three seashells? WAS Sandra Bullock really likable? Find out!!! Watch Demolition Man today!

"Imma Chargin My Laser!" - actual dialogue.

Greatest Movie of All Time of the Week: Legend of the Lost!

Theme: Subcutaneous Phat - Desert Sessions

In the meme years, Sophia Loren is now chiefly remembered for this historic mogging at the hands of Jayne Mansfield:

M*n will never understand the murderous rage of a Casey out-Stacied.

But if being in even a single good movie were a category (it sure isn't at the Oscars), Loren takes the W hands down. Batjac gem Legend of the Lost (one imagines the word "City" might have rounded out the title before some clever clogs realised the title could refer to the protagonists as much as what they seek) sees Loren play petty thief and men-resenting thot Dita, whose hard-knock life in the alleys of Timbuktu must be self-imposed, as anyone who looked much like Loren could easily marry the first rich tourist she meets, but never mind. For some reason, like every Tinder foid, she's never met a moid to satisfy her laundry list of high-falutin standards until clean-cut idealist Paul (Rossano Brazzi) enters her life and introduces her to the radical notion of not being a resentful thot.

The hero we need.

But who's that other - why, it's John Wayne himself, of course, playing himself once more as "Joe January", a Dionysian cynic whose rough edges contrast sharply with Paul's goody-two-shoes schtick and whose disdain for wahmen matches Dita's for men. This unlikely trio seem an all-too-likely cast for an odd-couple (or odd-triad) action-adventure to find a lost city in the Sahara filled with jewels, an impression bolstered by the early scenes of obligatory good-natured broad humour typical of Batjac's unpretentious populism.

One early scene has a comic sleazoid seek out Wayne in this club (he's not even there; the scene is otherwise pointless) just so we can see this chick do this swimming dance:

I have no idea whether they do this dance in Mali IRL but I hope so. Email the government of Mali at MaliGov@whatever.com and ask.

But Legend soon strikes out in a surprisingly profound psychological and theological direction. Foreshadowed action scenes between our heroes and the Tuareg are deferred in favour of the elemental antagonists of heat, thirst, temptation and madness. Paul's goodness and Joe & Dita's badness are all tested. Featureless desert yields strange, beguiling beauty, and elaborate sets moan emptily with wind, which is appropriate because Legend has less in common with the Duke's thousands of crowd-pleasing westerns and more to do with Sjöström's silent psych-western opus The Wind, with its flawed men, neurotic women, and strangely cathartic hints of hope for their reconciliation.

They might not all make it, but we can.

RANKED: The Greatest Metal Album Cövers of All Time!!!

In the world of album art, the line between great and hilarious is fine indeed, and nowhere moreso than the niche of heavy metal. Sure, a million srs bsns bands with names like Aphonic Threnody (real) or Somnolent Vasectomy (made-up, I think) might play it safe with chiaroscuro lighting and a rotting skull or pentagram or some such bullshit, but if you don't take the risks, you can't expect to qualify for the rewards. With that in mind, here are the album covers that dared to dream.

1. "Easy Prey" - Predator

Watch out, unwary beachgoer! This homeless bum with a condom on his head will grab you! What's most fascinating about this is the perfect placement of the swimmer out at sea, creating a triangular perspectival composition that suggests way more effort went into this shoot than the concept might incline you to believe. Is there a happy ending for our unsuspecting heroine?

No!!!

2. Mutiny - Dammaj

A pirate getting hit by lightning via his guitar sounds pretty metal to me. Too bad this off-the-rack Halloween costume was the best the record company would deign to splurge for. But just look at his enthusiasm for the role! In my book, this dude belongs up in the pantheon with Eddie and Vic Rattlehead.

3. Battle at Helm's Deep - AttackeR

AttackeR: "you've read Lord of the Rings, right?"

Gigachad: "yes." *Draws He-Man fighting a green lobster-bat*

4. Pink Bubbles Go Ape - Helloween

????

Just kidding. For me, it's Better than Raw:

>tfw no goth gf who gets wet af stirring my dinner

5. Lion and Tiger - Fire Strike

"I want a tiger, a lion, a sorceress with rocking cans, a crystal ball and her hair on fire" - Brazil's Fire Strike, correctly.

6. Ravening Iron - Eternal Champion

From the pyramidal composition to the characteristically "cat-like" features of the enthroned exhibitionist, this is a textbook case of doing it right vis-à-vis Frank Frazetta pastiche. Naturally, we give it to you censored to avoid offence. Honourable mention must go to Ültra Raptör's efforts in the same spirit, which simply rip off the master's poses wholesale, and throw in a dinosaur atop a Mesoamerican-style step pyramid:

A band after my own heart.

7. Tooth and Nail - Dokken

As the title implies, this was a do-or-die bid for superstardom from the hair scene's GOAT ensemble. How best to let the world know what manner of virtuosic axework and superlative songwriting were to be found within the album sleeve? If you ventured "the Creature from the Black Lagoon's claw bursting through the aluminium waves from a fiery pit below to grab the band logo rendered in shiny chrome", you share an eerie counterintuitive genius with some based cokehead whom I can't be bothered to look up.

8. Soldiers Under Command - Stryper

Looking like something out of Games Workshop's Necromunda, Soldiers' album cover will make you pray for a Christian Mad Max ripoff starring a hair metal band tooling around the post-nuke world dispensing justice from their yellow-and-black striped armoured vehicle. Now you want to see it too, don't lie.

9. Killing is My Business...and Business is Good! (eventually) - Megadeth

It's only fitting that the greatest GOAT metal band of all time (deal with it, tastelets) should have rung in his, uh, their career with this majestically edgy design featuring Vic in what can only be described as what the doodles in the back of my schoolbooks looked like in my head. Too bad the fuckups at the record company lost the original design and so for years it was released with this cover instead:

Presumably they got this plastic skull from the same Dollar Tree where Dammaj got their pirate costume.

No World Order! - Gamma Ray

This, on the other hand, looks precisely like the type of shit I used to doodle back in school (still do, too). The world is at war between an evil Grim Reaper leading the Illuminati and a good, Buddhist Grim Reaper (????) each armed with shamshir lightsabres (lightshamshirs; OC DO NOT STEAL). I have no idea what the fuck Kai Hansen meant by this, but I'll take it over a band photo anyday.

Do ÿöü have a favourite album cover??? Share in the comments!!!