2020/08/09

Termination

No further content will be posted to this blog, which is now defunct. CFS will continue exclusively at my website.

Unsurprisingly, Blogger's new interface is ugly, buggy, bloated and wholly inadequate for the task of routine presentation. Certain functions have been obscured and features revoked. To format text, images and videos satisfactorily is now in some ways inconvenient, and in others impossible. Quotidian application of such a service is intolerable, especially when many superior alternatives such as WordPress are readily available.

Of course, this development was easily predictable from numerous precedents. Google URL Shortener, Picasa, Picasa Web Albums, Google News & Weather, Orkut, Google Base, Google Blog Search and Google Talk are some among several fine programs and services that Google either fathered or acquired, then eventually ruined with upgrades that rendered them functionally crippled and unusably bloated, or discontinued and supplanted with inferior successors such as Google Photos, Google+, Google Hangouts, Google Merchant Center, etc. This is perhaps an ineluctable eventuality of online corporate services, and yet another reason why free and open source software and third-party web hosting is preferable.

Finally, the corruption and sociopolitical turpitude that now characterizes Alphabet's flagrant misconduct, laughable corporate culture, and deteriorating quality is sufficient cause to distance oneself from, if not boycott that multinational conglomerate. Excellent free software and services, and affordable web hosting are abundantly available. Those who freely elect to patronize poorly-designed, ineptly, abusively, sometimes criminally mismanaged proprietary sites such as Google, Facebook and Twitter are less victims than masochists. So long as people (and especially bogus, self-styled "dissidents") persist in such submission, they contribute to the perpetuation of a malign corporate dominance of the Internet that seeks to censor communication, abridge other liberties, and hobble innovation and functionality.

Please consider employment of these alternatives.

2020/08/05

Palatable: The Party

The Party (1968)
Directed by Blake Edwards
Written by Blake Edwards, Tom Waldman, Frank Waldman
Produced by Blake Edwards, Ken Wales, Walter Mirisch
Starring Peter Sellers, Claudine Longet, Gavin MacLeod, J. Edward McKinley, Denny Miller, Steve Franken, Fay McKenzie, Kathe Green, Allen Jung, Danielle De Metz, Linda Gaye Scott, Herbert Ellis, Sharron Kimberly, Frances Davis, Timothy Scott, Jean Carson
Tati meets the Marx Brothers meets Mad Magazine, then bombs after its opening night, which concurred with Martin Luther King's assassination! Between Pink Panthers, Edwards and Sellers contrived this experimental extravaganza starring the comic genius in brownface as a cordial, calamitously clumsy Indian actor inadvertently invited to a soiree at the swankily hideous mansion of a studio executive (McKinley) whose war epic he's accidentally wrecked, where he repeatedly makes an ass of himself and a shambles of nearly everything he touches. Goofy revelry and mishaps ensue his encounters with the stuffy harbinger and his wife (McKenzie), a progressively drunken cater waiter (Franken), one friendly, French actress (Longet) accompanying a lecherous producer (MacLeod), a raucous star of Westerns (Miller) flirting with a juicy Italian actress (De Metz), and a painted elephant adopted by the hosts' sprightly daughter (Green), whose clamorous coterie further enlivens the party, as does a jazz band and a rumbustious, Russian ballet troupe. In wide static shots and drifting pans, slapstick stupidities partially improvised from Edwards' and the Waldmans' skeletal screenplay bump, bumble, stagger, stumble and crash in plotless luxury, as the gentle, inelegant Hindu and deliberately disorderly guests carouse with rising ruction to a riotously, redundantly sudsy culmination. Sensible viewers can safely ignore ludicrous leftists who liken Sellers' silly yet sensitive creation of his lovably mansuete goofball to minstrel shows. A victim of critical misevaluation and unfortunate coincidence, this commercial washout deserves reappraisal as a tarnished comedic gem of late Old Hollywood and Edwards' and Sellers' most daring collaboration, shot observationally with understated craft on a stupendous set populated by character actors who don't miss a beat. For such quality, and its commentary on the predatory predispositions of Tinseltown's loathsome elites and the culture shock that redounds to half of its protagonists' follies, this farce is a few cuts above.
Recommended for a double feature paired with A Shot in the Dark or Playtime.

2020/07/28

Execrable: Hot Girls Wanted

Hot Girls Wanted (2015)
Directed by Jill Bauer, Ronna Gradus
Written by Brittany Huckabee
Produced by Jill Bauer, Ronna Gradus, Rashida Jones, Brittany Huckabee, Mary Anne Franks, Debby Herbenick, Bryant Paul, Daniel Raiffe, Kat Vecchio, Abigail Disney, Barbara Dobkin, Geralyn White Dreyfous, Chandra Jessee, Evan Krauss, Ann Lovell, Julie Parker Benello, Gini Reticker, Jacki Zehner
Starring Tressa Silguero, Riley Reynolds, Rachel Bernard, Kendall Plemons, Kelly Silguero, Emeterio Silguero, Ava Kelly, Lucy Tyler, Michelle Toomey, Ivan H. Itzkowitz III, Levi Cash, Tony D.
In this abhorrent age when exhibitionism and prostitution are selectively celebrated, nobody comes cheaper than an amateur pornstar, such as several vacuous vicenarians and teens (Silguero, Bernard, Tyler, Toomey, et aliae) by Craigslist procured, then housed in a Miamian residence by an oafish "talent agent" (Reynolds). These halfwitted harlots earn an average pittance of $800 per shoot (approximately $2,400-$4,000 weekly), yet pay steep vestural and medical costs while sustaining much more physical and emotional wear than moderately successful camgirls and models who've superior recompense. Bauer's and Gradus's sloppily shot documentary accidentally divulges these girls as opportunistically obscene yet gullibly gormless and remarkably self-centered, less victims than fungible, cretinous, covetous cogs who extenuate their degrading, entirely elective profession in a tired and contracting industry that competes with homemade pornography and relatively restrained streaming sluts by working cheap, disposable, superabundant talent. Somberly, suggestively depreciative intertitles cite statistical data regarding the popularity of amateur porn and its industry's lack of regulation to provoke sheltered boomers and Xers, but provide no further context to the movie's accurate postulation that the normalization of pornography proceeds from an urban cultural degeneracy, a condition to which this production owes its trashy trappings. Neither does it comparatively explore the myriad of lucrative online options for attractive young women of limited means and intelligence, only a few of which are scarcely mentioned. They have obliged budding hustlers if the filmmakers have deterred but a few hundred from participation in this especially sleazy, abusive, potentially injurious form of porn, as by their even-handed depiction of Silguero's ordinarily short career, resultant maladies and retirement at the advice of her mother and spinelessly dithering boyfriend (Plemons). Akin to this flick's other aforelisted, preposterously profuse productional parasites, that overt dearth of talent that Bauer, Gradus and especially Jones have evidenced in their piffling corporate careers has always been supplemented by their galling congenital privilege, which they agonize to arrogate to a patriarchy that hasn't existed for decades. As heritors of nepotism and commissaries of a contemporary feminism that's far more disposed to gainfully exploit the unfortunate indiscretion of poor and middle-class women and skew its consequences as "oppression" rather than empower them by promoting an embarrassment of available alternatives, they prove themselves specimens of their ignoble, incompetent, pietistical class. So few in their stratum care to grasp that the little people who whore themselves do so volitionally.
Instead, watch Escorts or Rocco.

2020/07/21

Execrable: Je t'aime moi non plus

Je t'aime moi non plus (1976)
Written and directed by Serge Gainsbourg
Produced by Jacques-Eric Strauss, Claude Berri
Starring Joe Dallesandro, Jane Birkin, Hugues Quester, Nana Gainsbourg, Reinhard Kolldehoff, Gerard Depardieu
Ever the trailblazer, Gainsbourg baked cinema's first great queer turkey years before that particular platter was served annually as Oscar bait. In a rural pseudo-America, the relationship of two strapping, gay garbagemen is disrupted when that twosome's hunkier homo (Dallesandro) falls for a boyish gamine (Birkin) employed as the barmaid of a remote roadside cafe, to the chagrin and eventual, violent ire of his embattled boyfriend (Quester). Lest he deviate from wont, their transitory romance is consummated with shrieking sodomy, for which they're ejected from several hotels. Trite (if not tame) by contemporary standards, Gainsbourg's foul fiasco hasn't much to recommend it save the considerable, concerted screen presence of its attractive stars. Alas, Quester is the only one among them who can actually act; the camera loves them both, but Little Joe is almost as stiffly unfit when dubbed as usual, and hasn't any chemistry with the director's scrawnily curveless mistress. Their adorable bull terrier Nana steals her every scene, mayhap because she's spared any lines. As in all his pictures, some tackily gimmicky shots are sprinkled throughout elsewise technically sound direction, and ham-fisted symbolism abounds in most scenes, uttered often as daft dialogue verifying that Serge's verbal verve was strictly lyric. Just as wearisome are his patently sham American trappings: a Mack truck, hamburgers, bluejeans and a rock band that performs during and after a horrific competition of dumpy ecdysiasts. Depardieu's briefly squandered in the role of an addled equestrian, as is perennial nebbish Michel Blanc. Nearly a decade after its controversial release, voxless variants of Gainsbourg's classic, celebrated, titular, trademark signature single serenade the leads as they kiss ineptly. Lingering shots of a dumpsite and a climax wherein Birkin and Dallesandro generate minimal erotic heat via anal intercourse in the bed of his garbage truck remind us what this movie is, and where it belongs.
Instead, watch Going Places.