“Back Tae The Future” Gets A Mention On Yahoo Movies.

Great Scott, Marty mah man!

My Glaswegian version of the Back To The Future films on Twitter got a mention on Yahoo Movies UK! You can read it HERE.

Marty

BTTF

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* Twitter: “Back Tae The Future”
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Old Woman Ruins A Prized Jesus Christ Fresco.

Today’s Moron Of The Day award goes to the elderly, well meaning idiot, Cecilia Gimenez.

Courtesy of The Independent

An elderly woman has destroyed a 19th-century Spanish fresco in a botched restoration conducted without permission.

Three separate photos show the extent of the damage done by the unnamed (Cecilia Gimenez) woman to Elias Garcia Martinez’s work ‘Ecce Homo’.

The damage was discovered after Martinez’s granddaughter made a donation to the Centro de Estudios Borjanos which holds an archive of local religious artworks, a couple of weeks ago.

Staff then went to check on the work at the Santuario de Misericodia church in Borja, near Zaragoza in north eastern Spain, only to find it dramatically altered.

The three photographs show the changing face of the artwork over the last two years.

In the first photograph, taken in 2010, slight speckling is apparent. In the second photograph, taken just last month, large patches of white dominate the picture. One theory is that the elderly woman had already begun her work on the painting at this point, and the white marks are the result of her scraping away the paint.

The third photograph shows the image transformed beyond recognition, with a childlike reworking of Jesus’ face, broad brush strokes removing any subtlety from the clothing and thick layers of red and brown paint covering several key details, including the crown of thorns.

Despite the terrible results, the restoration, which was completed without permission, is not thought to have been malicious; rather the work of an enthusiastic, if somewhat misguided, amateur who lived near to the church and simply wanted to repair the ageing artwork.

Culture councillor Juan Maria de Ojeda was quoted in the Spanish newspaper El Pais taking a somewhat sympathetic tone, saying the elderly perpetrator had undertaken the project “with good intentions” and had reported and admitted causing the damage when she realised it had “gotten out of hand”.

Despite being a work of little artistic importance, and not part of any painting or altarpiece, it did have some local sentimental value.

“The family used to come here to spend the holidays. One summer the artist made the portrait and bequeathed it to the people,” Ojeda said.

The damage is currently being assessed in an attempt to work out exactly what materials the amateur restorer used. The long-term hope is that a professional may be able to remove the layers of paint and restore the work to some semblance of its former state.

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* Uh Oh…We Got A Moron Here!
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Keep The Meter Running.

I read a great article the other day in The Village Voice about one of my favourite films:
“Taxi Driver”.
Directed by Martin Scorsese.

i enjoyed it so much that I’m putting it up here so you can read it too.

Keep The Meter Running.
By J. Hoberman.

Some motion pictures produce the uncanny sensation of returning the spectator’s gaze. Martin Scorsese’s Taxi Driver—a movie in which the most celebrated line asks the audience, “Are you talkin’ to me?”—is one such film. It came, it saw, it zapped the body politic right between the eyes.

Celebrating its 35th anniversary with a newly restored print and a two-week Film Forum run, Taxi Driver was a powerfully summarizing work. It synthesized noir, neorealist, and New Wave stylistics; it assimilated Hollywood’s recent vigilante cycle, drafting then-déclassé blaxploitation in the service of a presumed tell-it-like-itis naturalism that, predicated on a frank, unrelenting representation of racism, violence, and misogyny, was even more racist, violent, and misogynist than it allowed.

The 12th top-grossing movie of 1976, Taxi Driver was not just a hit but, like Psycho or Bonnie and Clyde, an event in American popular culture—perhaps even an intervention. Inspired by one failed political assassination (the 1972 shooting of presidential hopeful George Wallace), it inadvertently motivated another (the 1981 attempt on President Ronald Reagan). The movie further established its 33-year-old director as both Hollywood’s designated artist and, after Taxi Driver was awarded the Palme d’Or at Cannes, an international sensation—the decisive influence on neo– New Wave filmmakers as varied as Spike Lee, Wong Kar-wai, and Quentin Tarantino.

Scorsese didn’t direct Taxi Driver so much as orchestrate its elements. Lasting nearly 20 minutes and fueled by Bernard Herrmann’s rhapsodic score, the de facto overture is a densely edited salmagundi of effects—slow motion, fragmenting closeups, voluptuous camera moves, and trick camera placement—that may be the showiest pure filmmaking in any Hollywood movie since Touch of Evil. Certainly no American since Welles had so confidently presented himself as a star director. And yet Taxi Driver was essentially collaborative. It was the most cinephilic movie ever made in Hollywood, openly acknowledging Bresson, Hitchcock, Godard, avant-gardists Michael Snow and Kenneth Anger, and the John Ford of The Searchers. Moreover, the movie’s antihero, Travis Bickle—a homicidal combination of Dirty Harry and Norman Bates who describes himself as God’s Lonely Man—sprang from the brain of former film critic Paul Schrader and, as embodied for all eternity by the young Robert De Niro, all but instantly became a classic character in the American narrative alongside Huck Finn and Holden Caulfield.

Citizen of a sodden Sodom where the steamy streets are always wet with tears, among other bodily fluids, Bickle embarks each evening on a glistening sea of sleaze. Seen through his rain-smeared windshield, Manhattan becomes a movie—call it “Malignopolis”—in which, as noted by Amy Taubin in her terrific Taxi Driver monograph, “the entire cast of Superfly seems to have been assembled in Times Square” to feed Travis’s fantasies. The cab driver lives by night in a world of myth, populated by a host of supporting archetypes: the astonishing Jodie Foster as Iris, the 12-year-old hooker living the life in the rat’s-ass end of the ’60s, yet dreaming of a commune in Vermont; Harvey Keitel as her affably nauseating pimp; Peter Boyle’s witless cabbie sage; and Cybill Shepherd’s bratty golden girl, a suitably petit-bourgeois Daisy Buchanan to Travis’s lumpen Gatsby.

Brilliant and yet repellent, at times even hateful, Taxi Driver inspired understandable ambivalence. (At Cannes, the announcement that it had won the Palme d’Or was greeted with boos.) How could reviewers not be wary? Taxi Driver is nakedly opposed even to itself, as well as the culture that produced it. For Travis, all movies are essentially pornographic; had he met his creators, he would surely, as observed by Marshall Berman in his history of Times Square, consider them purveyors of “scum and filth.” It’s the slow deliberation with which this lunatic kicks over his TV and terminates his connection to social reality that signals his madness—and the filmmaker’s.

Like Werner Herzog’s Aguirre or Coppola’s Apocalypse Now, Taxi Driver is auteurist psychodrama. Not for nothing did Scorsese give himself a cameo playing a character even wiggier than Travis. Who can possibly imagine the internal fortitude or psychic cost this movie required or exacted? Certainly no one connected with Taxi Driver ever again reached such heights (or plumbed such depths), although Albert Brooks became a significant filmmaker in his own right, while Scorsese and De Niro would come close with Raging Bull and The King of Comedy—two movies that equal or surpass Taxi Driver in every way except as the embodiment of the historical spirit.

Recalling his youth, Baudelaire wrote of simultaneously experiencing the horror and the ecstasy of existence. So it is with Taxi Driver. The pagan debauchery the child Scorsese saw in Quo Vadis is played out in the Manhattan of 1975 A.D. Hysterical yet sublime, the movie crystallizes one of the worst moments in New York’s history—the city as America’s pariah, a crime-ridden, fiscally profligate, graffitifestooned moral cesspool. Scorsese ups the ante by returning endlessly to his boyhood movie realm of 42nd Street, which, in the mid-’70s, was a lurid land of triple-X-rated cinema, skeevy massage parlors, cruising pimp mobiles, sidewalks crammed with hot-pants hookers, and the customers who on any given weekday evening, according to NYPD stats, were patronizing porn-shops at the rate of 8,000 per hour.

It was while Taxi Driver was in postproduction that the Daily News ran the headline “FORD TO CITY: DROP DEAD.” The movie is Scorsese’s hometown farewell (a love letter quite different from Woody Allen’s). Like Nero, he torches the joint and picks up his lyre. Taxi Driver is a vision of a world that already knows it is lost. A third of a century later, the Checker cabs are gone, as are the taxi garages at the end of 57th Street and the all-night Belmore cafeteria. Times Square has been sanitized, the pestilent combat zone at Third Avenue and 13th Street where Iris peddles her underage charms has long since been gentrified. New York is no longer the planet’s designated Hell on Earth. (Six years after Taxi Driver, Blade Runner would dramatize a new urban space.)

No nostalgia, though: In other aspects, the world of Taxi Driver is recognizably ours. Libidinal politics, celebrity worship, sexual exploitation, the fetishization of guns and violence, racial stereotyping, the fear of foreigners—not to mention the promise of apocalyptic religion— all remain. Taxi Driver lives. See it again. And try to have a nice day.

George & The Charlie Chaplin Time Traveller.

I’m sorry to go over old news here but I completely missed all coverage of this story back in October 2010.

From BBC News:

Has Belfast film-maker found time travel evidence?

A Belfast film-maker has posted a video on the internet showing what he says could be evidence of time travelling.

George Clarke from east Belfast has been puzzled for more than a year by a scene in a film which appears to show a woman talking on a mobile phone.

The unusual thing is that the movie was made by Charlie Chaplin in 1928 – long before mobile phones were invented.

In the eight days since George posted the clip on Youtube – more than 1.5m people have viewed the video online.

Even the US talk show host Jay Leno created his own spoof version.

George was checking the extras on a Chaplin DVD box-set and began watching a clip of the 1928 Hollywood premiere of The Circus.

“As I sat back to watch it I realised in the first 30 seconds there’s A lady strolling by with her hand up to her ear which looked quite familiar in today’s society.

“So I wound it back and watched it again, zoomed it in and slowed it down and got other people in to check it out.

“Everybody had the same reaction – it looks like she’s talking on a mobile phone.”

He has since showed the clip to a number of people, including the audience of a Belfast film festival.

He said no-one has been able to provide an explanation.

Since posting it on Youtube it has had more that 1.5m views and provoked 10,000 comments.

“A mystery like this one, bottom line I don’t think we’re ever going to find out,” George said.

“My initial reaction was that’s a mobile phone, they weren’t around then, my only explanation – and I’m pretty open-minded about the sci-fi element of things – it was kind of like wow that’s somebody that’s went back in time.”

End Of Article.

What the hell is George on about?
What the hell are you on about George?

“A mystery like this one, bottom line I don’t think we’re ever going to find out”.

George.
Georgie!
Here’s what’s happend George.
Here’s what you’ve done:
You’ve been watching the extras on your Chaplin DVD and you’ve seen this:

You’ve paused it and zoomed right in George…

You’ve immediately jumped to the conclusion that:
(a) “That’s a mobile phone!”
(b) “That must be a TIME TRAVELLER!”

Then what you’ve done George is – You’ve went to the internet, the papers and the T.V telling everyone about the time traveller you’ve noticed.

Wanna know what my first thoughts were Georgie?

“There’s someone scratching their ear”.
My second thought was:
“Hearing aids were around in the 1920’s, maybe it’s a hearing aid”.

My third thought was:
“LOOK AT THE FUCKIN’ SIZE OF THAT ZEBRA!”

Case Closed Georgie.

The Exact Opposite Of “Happy Days”.

Folks,
I’m not even kidding.

Yesterday I decided to change the alarm tone on my phone.
For YEARS, I’ve woke up to the theme tune from “Happy Days” but I was sick of it so I changed it.

Í’ve just went onto the BBC News site today to find THIS!:

I’m never changing my ringtones EVER AGAIN.

I loved Tom Bosley!
Read the full article HERE.

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