As purveyors of original content, we are sort of against blatant site recommendations. Yet now and then one comes along that is so well done, we must sing our praises in copy. 

Please shake hands with The Auteurs. They plan on being somewhere between Netflix’s instant streaming feature and Film Forum. There’s curation, solid selection and a novel Cinematheque feature where you can stream selected “film festivals” for free and then discuss with other people after viewing. Currently, they have a Criterion-curated selection of documentaries, which includes the completely incredible Burden of Dreams.

OK – we get it. It’s the most “divisive” movie of the year. It takes you to the “limits” of boredom. It has no plot. It’s an action film without action.

Are you movie critics really this lazy? You get paid for that sort of criticism?

The Limits of Control, Jim Jarmusch’s new film, is the sort of shocking rebuke to the status quo that the film world needs right now. Wake up, you classless assholes! When your best film in a year is Milk (or whatever) and your reviews of actual daring, experimental films merely extrapolate puns with the title to call it boring or pretentious, there needs be a shift back to something with, well, brains.

On an initial, surface-level reading, Jarmusch’s movie is more than enough for someone willing to take the time to think their way through things. It’s all reflections, mirroring and repetition – a visual and auditory equivalent to a Terry Riley composition (or maybe the soundtrack bands like Boris). A line throughout, “Reality is arbitrary,” suggests the viewer should let their mind wander to wherever they please. It’s almost as if the film, with its slow, plotting pace, provides the perfect scenery for an extended meditation. Issach De Bankole’s Lone Man character moves along to provide a focal point off in the mountains, cafes and circularity of the surrounding architecture.

On a deeper level, The Limits of Control is an actual film lover’s dream. The intertextuality is more than enough to keep one occupied for hours. You have William S. Burroughs in the title, references to classics like Point Blank and Le Samourai, a Rimbaud quotation and tons more (Rivette, tai-chi, psychedelics, etc.). The film also brings the idea of cinematic sampling, which I’ve often written about, to a new level. It’s like a giant, drone-like hiphop beat that keeps chugging along. If you can’t handle repetition, you probably shouldn’t ride, but otherwise it really works in a spectacular way.

Go here for a great explanation of what the film samples.

Go here for a great interview with Jarmusch on Salon.

There’s that David Berman poem called “New York, New York,” where he says, “A second New York is being built/ a little west of the old one./ Why another, no one asks,/ just build it, and they do.” Well, that’s sort of how I felt upon finally seeing the new Yankee Stadium. It looks similar – actually, eerily similar – on the outside, and the inside isn’t much different. For some (myself included), the feeling of particular architecture can become entrenched in our psyches, and luckily, the new Yankee Stadium thoroughly understands this fan/geography relationship.

The seats still tower over the field and position the grandstands (where the real fans sit) with a great view of the game. There’s still a crass overtone in those upperdecks. Yes, it’s weird to hear someone call Redsox fans “a bunch of crosseyed faggots” when you’re not even playing the Redsox, but it also confirms you’re still alive and part of a familial group of fans. We all have weird relatives.

The game, lasting 14 innings, was an odd, up-and-down sort of affair. It was the longest Yankee game since 2002 and ran a mind numbing four hours and 57 minutes. CC Sabathia had flashes of brilliance, yet still can’t get it done. He gave up seven runs in seven innings. At least the Yankees matched that.

Then, all went quiet for seven innings. It was shutout pitch after shutout pitch. Most of the hours-wet crowd was sopping too much and tired, so they headed for the parking lots and trains. Lazily hit flyballs to Oakland outfielders were met with pandemonium from the remaining crowd. Those of us left were the true warriors. By the end, I had eight rows (four in front, four behind) to myself and was using surrounding seats like a makeshift bed. Melky Cabrera won the game on a 2-run walk-off in the bottom of the 14^th. 9-7.

The new stadium is pretty dang magnificent. True, it’s a simulation of the old, but it’s done so well that it mirrors all the historic ghosts inherent in both the field and mind. There will always be that fascinating split between the vibrancy of lives (all races, socioeconomic backgrounds and sexes) in the stands and the glitz of the new amenities. For every human success or failure on the field, there will be a state-of-the-art TV to replay the action and then run ads from Best Buy, Modell’s , AT&T, etc. etc. etc.

Maybe my companion for the day put it best when reflecting on the luxurious bathroom accommodations: “There was no line, but when I got in, there was this guy who completely dropped his pants down to his ankles and was taking a piss.”

You can’t simulate that. That man is eternal.

• Find an image, .jpg’s work best.
• Open the image with TextEdit.app or Notepad.exe
• Pick a spot, write a poem (copy/pasting segments works too– anything to stir the hex soup)
• Save the file under a different name (still .jpg); changes may be irreversible
• Open the image in normal viewing application

(original image, thx dvn!)

By Andrew Shuta